


Follow the Sun

by Naturelover422



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Brotherly Love, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Major Illness, Near Death Experiences, Sick Character, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-21
Updated: 2017-12-12
Packaged: 2018-03-31 12:54:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 46
Words: 195,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3978826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naturelover422/pseuds/Naturelover422
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John Lennon and George Harrison fall gravely ill while touring North America for their second time, things go downhill... fast. How will Paul McCartney and Ringo Starr cope with the taxing and worrisome battle they're suddenly faced with?</p>
<p>Set in 1964 during Beatlemania... Rated M for language and general twistedness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. What Goes On

It was August 28, 1964 and the Beatles had just arrived safely as a whole at their destination in the midst of New York City; successfully marking the second time any of them had ever set foot on northeastern United States soil. They were several weeks into their first official American/Canadian tour and excitement as well as jetlag flowed through each of them as they were whisked about like fragile cargo, all while being shielded by heavy security from large crowds of screaming fans that had somehow managed to slip effortlessly into every nook and cranny.

Since their Ed Sullivan Show appearances in Miami and New York several months back, it had been brutally brought to their attention that things had all but remained the same within the city. The fans, much more familiar with them and their music, were crazier it seemed and willing to do anything, anything to see them, or so their road manager Mal Evans had put it. According to him, they were in for even worse a culture shock than what they’d had to deal with their first time within the region. Initially, the Beatles weren’t overly disturbed by the release of information as they’d already completed several shows within several cities of the country by the given point of time. They had begun touring in Daly City, California, ended up in Las Vegas, Nevada, traveled north to Seattle, Washington, continued further into Vancouver, British Columbia, came back to Los Angeles, California, before moving on to Morrison, Colorado, and most recently Cincinnati, Ohio. Judging by what they’d already experienced, they had readily presumed that there wasn’t a place that could be crazier than Los Angeles. That, however, was a statement made on the flight over and one by one, as New York manifested before their very eyes; the Beatles were beginning to eat their own words.

There were signs everywhere, most of which portraying a wide variety of colorful not to mention musical messages that ranged from: ‘Please, Please Me, Beatles!’ to ‘Love Me Do, Paul McCartney!’ to ‘I’d Be Happy Just to Dance with John Lennon’, to ‘I’ll Give You All My Loving!’ and so on. In addition, existed several artistically drawn signs, scattered about. Some with various pictures of each of them placed creatively inside crudely drawn hearts and others using supplementary means of affection-related depictions in a struggle to stand out, a feat that seemed near impossible in the presumably growing mass of people.

It seemed fans had stationed themselves in every possible open space from the airport entrance, to the airport exit; and from the airport exit to the awaiting limo, in high hopes that they’d be able to snatch up a Beatle and bring him home. Much like a child finding a stray puppy on the sidewalk and bringing it home to family for love and cherishment. Only, instead of a band of stray puppies, they were four Beatles. Four British rock sensations straight out of Liverpool, England, and in America for what very well seemed like the first time. In a way, they were like strays. Strays that every living thing seemingly wanted to get their hands on. And despite the considerable amount of time that had passed since their preliminary rise to fame, it all still felt very much like a dream. At least that was how things felt to George Harrison as he clambered third into the waiting limo, following band mates Ringo Starr and John Lennon. He didn’t doubt for a minute, however, that the others harbored similar, if not the same, feelings regarding the overall state of affairs.

Both John and Ringo had grabbed the seats closest to the window on either side of the limo, and George frowned, realizing with growing dejection that it wasn’t going to be much of a scenic ride for him on their second trip through the foreign, energetic, concrete excitement that was New York City. Having been sick with the flu over a good extent of the tour, nothing had been very scenic for him anywhere thus far, let alone New York. And to make matters worse, not only didn’t he get a window seat on the flight in, but he had managed to be sick, the very last time they were in New York on what had then been their first official U.S. tour. Needless to say, the current arrangement in seating left him disillusioned.

“Awful sweet of ye’ blokes to offer me the window seat,” he muttered, sitting down in the large space that was situated between John and Ringo, “Considering I didn’t get one on the jet either.” His disheartened glare shifted from John and then lingered on Ringo who promptly waved off George’s insignificant frustrations, not quite seeing his cause for concern, “Aw come off it, Georgie,” he responded, “Paulie hasn’t gotten a window seat today yet neither but to be fair, neither Johnny or me got window seats last time we were in New York on the plane or in the limo.”

“…I was too sick then to enjoy it or even care…” George grumbled.

John’s tone revealed his indifference as he gazed out the window closest to him, “That’s not our problem now, is it?” he snapped, “Who are ye’ anyway, the bloody queen of the Nile? Y’see one cloud, y’see ‘em all!”

“This isn’t about the bloody clouds!” George sighed in exasperation, “Y’both bloody well know we don’t get to do much sightseeing as it is while touring. Seeing as I didn’t get a view on the jet this time around, the least either of y’selfish gits could do is offer me one in the limo! I’d appreciate it more than the lot of ye’ that’s fer sure.”

“Sod off, would ye’?” John muttered offhandedly, “Y’should’ve thought about that ahead of time…” He then added, “Maybe you’ll get one on the way to the show later on, yeah?”

“It’ll be dark, y’git!” George retaliated, “It won’t matter then…” He couldn’t help a fleeting sensation of annoyance towards John. He was being such a wanker today, more so than usual.

“Then you’ll see it tomorrow when we leave fer Atlantic City, New Jersey,” Ringo added via way of solution, “Paulie too, if ‘e wants.”

John scowled, “Speaking a’ Paulie, what’s taking ‘im so long?”

“Ira and Mal took him to the loo,” Ringo responded, “Must’ve needed to go badly.”

George cracked a smile, “Poor bloke couldn’t wait to poo it seems…”

Ringo couldn’t help laughing, “‘Ey, it happens, mate.”

“Well ‘e better bloody well hurry up,” a new voice added in contribution to the subject, “We’re running on borrowed time as it is.”

All three Beatles glanced across the limo to where their manager Brian Epstein had taken a recent seat, what might as well have been fifteen feet away, “And what’s the matter with ye’, Eppy?” John asked, his tone taking on that mischievous edge it often took on when he was about to mess with someone, “George, Ringo, and me, we not good enough fer ye’ over ‘ere? Need to fucking sit way the bloody fuck in west Hamburg just to be away from us?”

“Don’t start, Lennon,” Eppy cautioned, his voice taking on a warning edge as he regarded him with wary brown eyes.

John shook his head, a slightly playful frown tugging at the corner of his lips, “Why so formal? We went over this last night, Eppy, call me Johnny.” Both George and Ringo had to fight to keep their laughter in.

Eppy rolled his eyes, in no mood for John’s joking, “Lennon, I swear…”

“Aw, now you’ve gone and hurt m’feelings, love,” John mock pouted, managing to remain serious despite his playful acting, “I thought we had something! Didn’t last night mean anything to ye’?” More laughter.

Eppy blushed furiously, but said nothing as George and Ringo’s laughter filled up his silence. He shifted his gaze to the still open limo door and growled in frustration. Paul was just making his way down the walkway alongside Mal, the band’s Head of Security: Ira Sydell, following closely behind him. He’d been taking his sweet time probably mugging for his fans no doubt, one ploy he did not approve of when time was dwindling as it was. Eppy had no real way of knowing what really kept the bassist but by this moment, he was too annoyed and too tired to rationally decipher anything. Paul was supposed to be the responsible, organized one and that was all that mattered. Currently, he was the reason they were falling behind schedule.

“‘Ey Macca, get yer arse in ‘ere, would ye’?” John snapped, his tone portraying sudden irritability, a far cry from the lighthearted banter he had dished openly at his manager, “It’s getting late and the rest of us, the normal ones…we’re knackered as ‘ell!” He ran a hand through his hair, feeling suddenly drained of his exhaustion-induced hyper-activeness. A slight headache gnawed its way into his skull, helping him to realize that the aspirin he had taken earlier that morning, had worn off. Fighting off a groan, he scowled instead.

“Johnny’s right, Paul!” Harrison agreed, a conveniently placed yawn emerging to emphasize his own tiredness.

Within seconds, Paul ducked into the limo behind Mal, beaming grins at all its inhabitants. “‘Ello boys,” he greeted them, his warm hazel eyes sparkling.

“‘Bout time!” John grumbled, “The rate ye’ were taking it, I thought we’d have to spring fer a new bassist. Ol’ Eppy would’ve agreed!”

“A new band is more like it,” Eppy muttered hastily, his own continuous display of displeasure fueled by jetlag.

“Must’ve been some poo,” George mused aloud, ducking out of the way just in time to avoid a slug to the arm courtesy of Paul.

John smirked, rubbing slightly at the bridge of his nose where the dull, nagging headache seemed to originate from, “Seems like Eppy may need to let loose, himself…” he muttered flatly.

Paul seated himself finally between John and George and gazed in Eppy’s direction. Eppy’s glare said it all. Paul grinned sheepishly, “Was I long?” he dared to ask.

“Not ‘alf as long as your walk will be from the hotel to your show if ye’ pull that crap again,” Epstein growled, “We have a bloody deadline to keep to!”

John temporarily closed his eyes, his headache not quite responding well to Epstein’s verbal anger. “Yeah, yeah Eppy, ‘e get’s it…” he muttered, his native Scouse accent asserting itself thickly with the ongoing wave of exhaustion that plagued him. Pressing a hand against his forehead in attempt to alleviate the building pressure, he wondered vaguely if anyone else had a headache or if it was just him. For whatever reason, he just couldn’t seem to shake his…even after downing what seemed like half a bottle of aspirin that morning. Fending off another urge to groan, he removed his hand from his throbbing facial ache and tilted his head back, his eyes still closed. For a couple more seconds, he relished in the newfound darkness before forcing his eyes back open, the magic dying with the action. Fucking head…

“You all right, Johnny?” Paul asked too suddenly. John couldn’t help giving a startled jump in reaction to it, “Yeah…yeah, I’m fine.” He scrubbed at his eyes and sat up, avoiding Paul’s gaze, “What kept ye,’ anyway?” he asked, despite knowing full well what the answer was. He just wanted a change of subject…Anything to keep his mind off his exhaustion-induced nag of a headache.

Paul gave a puzzled smile, almost failing to catch a hold of John’s spur-of-the-moment question before coming into a playful boast, “Don’t ye’ know by now?” he asked, puffing his chest out in confident pride, “The birds can’t get enough of me in this country…or anywhere, really. Gotta keep ‘em entertained ‘fore they lose interest.” He threw a smirk in the direction of his best mate, “You’d know something about that least of all, Johnny,” he teased good-naturedly.

“Oh come off y’high horse, would ye’, princess?” John retorted, lazily returning the smirk in a tired fashion, “We can’t all be ‘alf as pretty as ye’.”

“You don’t even make the half-way point, Lennon!” Paul countered playfully, “Just putting that out there in case ye’ had the nerve to flatter yourself.”

Ringo chuckled at the typical banter shared by his two band mates while George and Eppy displayed their annoyance with a roll of the eyes. “Don’t listen to Paul, John,” Ringo stated, “Yer more than pretty in my eyes.”

John grinned comically, “‘Ear that, Paulie? Rings thinks I’m pretty!”

“So does Eppy,” Paul teased, “and that’s not saying much.”

“Jealous?” John countered, a smug look dominating his tired features, “What can I say? Ol’ Eppy’s got good taste.”

No one noticed as Eppy shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Paul opened his mouth, a witty return comment about to tumble out when George chose that very moment to make his building annoyance show. “Fuck, ye’ guys! Yer both pretty! You too, Rings! Now sod off all of ye’, happy?”

Paul and Ringo were well into laughter by the end of their youngest band mate’s outburst. John would’ve joined in but for the sake of his head, beamed an amused smile instead. “Harri, y’fucking fairy,” he stated playfully, “Who’d a known?” He turned suddenly serious, “Don’t let on to Eppy though. ‘E’ll be on y’like a fly to a tart!”  
Ringo laughed even harder and Paul joined in immediately. Even Eppy and Mal had to crack smiles and George found he couldn’t suppress a grin no matter how annoyed he felt.

It was hard not to laugh at John when he was being this silly. Outspoken to the point of brutal honesty, sharp-witted, mischievous, and often rebellious, he could either build one up or knock one down, depending strongly on motive and his mood, which to George’s surprise had practically done a 180 from that morning. John had been so crabby and easily irritated upon waking up, the others found they had to bloody tiptoe around him to avoid his explosive wrath. When it came to John Lennon, he had the mentality of a wild and untamed wolf. Cross him the wrong way and he was quick to bark. Really piss him off and he’d bite without hesitation; otherwise he was similar to a playful puppy that sometimes went a little too far in its antics. It wasn’t exactly the most delicate balance situated within their band leader, but John could easily switch between the two in a flash. No one ever really knew what to expect when it came to initially approaching the musician. On a regular basis, he wasn’t the easiest guy to read, his brown eyes often cynical and guarded, holding everything from rebellion to bitterness to amusement to mischief. Anyone who knew him, truly knew him, were aware that they simply reflected his view of the world.

George couldn’t help but look at him with a bit of admiration. He radiated ultra-confidence, not only at times that called for it, but at times when he was even a bit insecure, which George and the band had grown to see was quite a bit despite his knack for not showing it. There were often times when his confidence brushed shoulders with sheer arrogance. In this state, John was likely to openly verbalize his thoughts, no matter the consequences it would bring. Thoughts would come to him and he’d inadvertently shoot his mouth off without taking time to assess the situation, a common occurrence that took place often when something was bothering him.

George on the other hand relished in his own quiet nature where he was happily bliss. He spoke only when he felt like it, and shut up when he didn’t, a concept that flabbergasted not only their fans but the press as well, giving them the motive to label him the ‘quiet Beatle’.”

John somewhat in contrast was seen as the witty one as he was always throwing about humor during press conferences and on stage during shows. He had this uncanny ability to say something completely crazy and comical, all the while, maintaining a cynical expression as the world around him dissolved into laughter. A riot he was. Unlike George, it was when John was being uncharacteristically quiet that it was often suspected that something may really be wrong. John was hardly quiet…even when in one of his many brooding moods. George had the ability to be a bit of a riot himself as did Paul and Ringo. But heaven knew that with particularly strong personalities like Lennon and McCartney in the works, he didn’t necessarily need to be forced to change his ways and become increasingly outspoken. Why should he? He was happy as he was and the band was happy as he was.

Ringo was seen as the adorably funny Beatle. A bit of a background mascot really, with his short, small frame that often took center stage over the fact he was the oldest out of all of them. It wasn’t entirely fair in George’s eyes but he didn’t believe for a second that the good-natured, high-spirited, mild-mannered drummer took it to heart. Ringo was more than capable of holding his own and boy, he could get the press going too when he wanted to, as could Paul with his charm and endearing smile. Paul was the cute and charming one or so he’d heard. Personality wise, he fell somewhere in between John and Ringo, a bit more gentle and toned down, than John, but equipped with the upfront presence that people tended to overlook when it came to Ringo…

“Fuck, it’s bloody cold in ‘ere…” John grumbled petulantly, cutting instantly and unknowingly into George’s tired, jetlag-induced thoughts. Blinking away the haze of his thinking, he glanced towards Lennon who was now sporting a tired frown as he vigorously rubbed his arms up and down where goose bumps were actually visible.

“Aw, yer heart’s not freezing in your chest again is it, mate?” Paul teased, drawing laughter out of Ringo and even a tired George, “Tends to ‘appen when it’s three sizes too small!”

“‘Ey good one, Paulie!” Ringo commemorated his friend, grinning.

John didn’t smile. “At least I’m the right size where it counts, y’bloody sod!” he countered, well in the midst of another uncharacteristically, extreme mood swing.

Laughter rang out once more but John wasn’t in the mood to bask in it, “Y’gits can’t tell me y’ain’t cold!”

The others shook their heads, laughter fading, “It’s actually quite comfy in ‘ere,” Ringo confirmed. To prove his point, he stretched out so his back was against the window he sat beside and playfully draped his feet across the legs of George, folding his arms behind his head and closing his eyes as if in a true state of bliss.

George didn’t waste time reacting, “Get off me, y’idiot!” he snapped, hastily shoving Ringo’s legs off of him, “Do I look like a bloody hassock?”

The drummer returned back to his most recent position, a satisfied grin on his face.

“‘Ey, Eppy, Mal, y’blokes cold over there?” Lennon called to both their managers, “What about Alf?” he asked; changing the focus to their driver without so much as waiting for their answers, “Is he cold?”

Locked in deep conversation with each other in regards to the impending show, both Epstein and Mal frantically waved him away, getting the point across that they weren’t to be bothered with such frivolous antics at such a crucial time.

“How can y’even be cold?” Paul challenged his friend suspiciously, “This limo’s barely spitting out cool air as it is!”

“I just am!” John snapped, “Fuck, Paul! I don’t fucking question yer body chemistry!”

Paul shrugged, choosing from experience not to say anything more on the subject. John was knackered. That much was obvious. He knew that he’d gotten little sleep the entire extent of the tour and his nerves were frayed, making him moody and unpredictable. Two things often took place when John was overtired. He got grumpy or he got silly and giddy. That was it. But over the course of this one day, their band mate had switched back and forth so much between the two; it made him a bit uneasy. It made him wonder if the guitarist was slowly cracking up…going insane…

Frowning, Paul watched as John drew his feet onto his seat as if to generate additional heat and leaned his head back against the window, closing his eyes as his bangs fell into them. “Tired?” he dared to question his friend, despite the obvious truth winking him in the face.

“I’m resting m’eyes… What do y’think, genius?” John attempted to snap, his antics failing miserably, “Don’t be soft…”

Paul wasn’t sure why, but his frown deepened at this. Maybe it was his coming to the conclusion that John looked and seemed even more tired than he’d initially realized. Nonetheless, he left his friend alone to rest. They still had a half hour before arrival at their hotel destination.

John was thankful when Paul didn’t pursue the subject any longer. Truthfully, he was fucking exhausted. And he wasn’t sure if it was due to the building heat outside brought on by the arrival of summer in the United States or the nagging jetlag but he felt bloody out of it as well. He was aware he had woken up in not so great a mood which had successfully made the first few hours of the day a living hell for his band mates as well as their managers. He’d been downright mean and condescending and for the life of him couldn’t quite figure out why. He knew he hadn’t slept much the entire tour thus far. Long, crazy, late nights on stage paired with endlessly screaming fans gathered outside every last building they stayed at, succeeded in keeping him awake much longer than the others.

Sometimes the noise level was intense enough that he’d get no sleep an entire night and crash the next day, forcing the other Beatles to cover for him and tell Epstein and Mal as well as press that he wasn’t feeling well and wouldn’t be with them. Other times, found him pushing himself through an entire day filled with interviews and publicity events when he was obviously knackered as hell. John hated those moments with a passion, especially when it led to the occasional, random reporter asking him personal question such as whether or not he was on something. Granted that by that point, he had normally indulged in his fair share of a smoke and then some, it wasn’t anyone’s business whether he was high or not and he had no problem letting the press know exactly that.

Paul could always tell when John felt off. His musical genius suffered, and he often had a hard time concentrating on anything, succumbing to constant bipolar mood changes that were well above average in frequency. How John had managed to make it through all the public affairs lately was beyond him, though adrenaline often played a large part. ‘Adrenaline,’ John mused. He could certainly use a shot of the stuff right about now among other things. It was possible he was becoming one of the walking dead. Truth be told, he felt well on his way to fulfilling the status. ‘Becoming a…what was it? …Mummy? …No, that wasn’t right… Zombie…? …Wait, yes… zombie… Christ, Lennon, yer losing it. Barely had it to begin with…’ Annoyed with the unusually sluggish state of his brain, John gave his head a sudden and violent shake to clear it free of the cobwebs that seemed to have been super-glued to it by crafty spiders. The overdone attempt sent his world into a surprising spin and he found himself frowning as he squeezed his eyes shut against the unsteady, betraying scenery. “Fuck…” he murmured, grimacing. Since when would such a head motion dizzy him so?

“John?” John Lennon jumped uncharacteristically as Paul’s voice filled his ears. Forcing his eyes open, he was grateful to find that everything had returned to its rightful place. Now if only his feeble breakfast would. John frowned, realizing he hadn’t eaten much over the course of the entire day. He’d managed a bowl of cornflakes that morning but only because he had known then that he had to eat something or keel over later. Weirdly enough, he hadn’t even been hungry then…and weirder still, didn’t feel that hungry even now… Nerves probably. Sometimes, they made him feel physically sick…

“John!” Paul repeated, this time managing to get his friend’s attention, “I heard ye’ swear. You all right?”

“Nothing gets by ye’, does it?” John responded, his voice coming out more tired and aggravated than anticipated. He then paused, realizing in his barely functioning mind that he was again sounding like a bastard. “Y’know I’m fine, Macca,” he sighed, managing a tired apologetic grin as if to confirm his statement, “Just don’t like turning into a bloody ice pop.” It was a partial truth as he was still annoyingly cold, though the dizzy spell had flushed his face something awful.

Continuing to take in his friend’s haggard appearance, Paul’s eyes narrowed in increasing skepticism, “You look a bit off-color, John,” he uttered, a hint of concern embedded within his tone, “Y’sure you’re all right?”

“I told you I’m fine!” John grumbled, his irritability rising to match Paul’s concern, “Now put a sock in it would ye’?”

“Fifteen minutes,” Paul told him, not letting on to whether he believed him or not, “Rest.” Somehow he had the feeling that every second that John could get to close his eyes was crucial. He wasn’t sure why, it was just a feeling.


	2. Please, Please Me

John wasn’t entirely sure when they’d finally reached their destination, but at some point he’d managed to doze off with his head resting against the sun-heated window. Paul’s frown only continued to deepen to the point that his eyebrows furrowed as he kept a close eye on his best mate. He was beginning to realize that no longer did he seem even extremely knackered, but utterly zonked. He was pale from lack of sleep and dark circles flirted with the underside of his bottom eyelids. He just didn’t look well, Paul realized with a growing feeling of dread. John hadn’t looked that great that morning either in addition to his then terrible mood, but looking at him now; it seemed the guitarist might not be feeling so great either. Could all those sleepless nights coupled with the nonstop public adventure that was fame, be finally taking its toll on him? It seemed almost inevitable.

“This is it, lads!” Epstein announced, breaking the silence that had fallen over the limo during the course of the past half hour. “We’ve officially arrived at your final stop before the show!” Without waiting to assess the amount of excitement his band threw back in his direction, he opened the limo door and hurriedly exited to talk with security. After a moment of gazing with silent curiosity at John’s pale, sleeping form, Mal mirrored Eppy’s actions and left the limo.

Having been dozing himself, Ringo’s head popped up and he turned his attention towards the window in instant awe and surprise at the amount of crazy that surrounded them. Security was scattered everywhere. Happy, but increasingly wild screams were already penetrating the closed windows of the limo. A path lined with barriers had been designed to get the Beatles safely to the hotel’s hospitality without the threat of being consumed by rabid fans.

Epstein and Mal could be seen talking to the head of the band’s security, as well as some of the hotel security. At this point, the Beatles were more than familiar with the safety measures designed to keep them out of harm’s way and remained seated until they were told it was completely safe to proceed.

“John all right?” George asked, peering beyond Paul in the direction of the soundly sleeping musician, “Was wondering why it got so quiet in ‘ere. Didn’t realize he’d managed to drop off.”

“He’s bloody knackered,” Paul replied, unable to keep a slight frown from ruling his features.

“Maybe a kip’s good fer him then,” George mused aloud, “He seems a bit off today…”

Paul nodded, the exact thought coming to his mind for what seemed like the millionth time that day. John did seem off; bloody out of it, really. He wondered if he was feeling all right. Without thinking, he lifted a hand and pressed the back of it gently against John’s forehead, leaving it for a few seconds before frowning at the results. It seemed the musician felt a bit warm to the touch, like he was possibly running a fever.

Without missing a beat, Paul gripped his friend’s shoulder and attempted to wake him, gently calling his name all the while. Finally after what seemed like an eternity, John’s eyes cracked open and shifted lazily towards him in what looked like immediate annoyance. “Christ, Macca, what is it?” he asked irritably, his words slurred and sleep-clogged.

“We’re here, Johnny,” Paul told him, anxiously studying his face for signs of illness, “You feeling all right? You still look off-color…”

John blinked, looking a bit startled at the question, “What? …M’fine.”

Paul shook his head, feeling entirely unconvinced, “I don’t know…I think you may have a bit of a temperature…” he stated very quietly as if to purposely keep George and Ringo out of the loop, “Yer face felt a bit warm when I checked and…”

“Was leaning against a hot window, y’know,” John interrupted with a feigned smile.

“So…you feel all right then?” Paul asked.

“If feeling bloody knackered off me arse falls in that category then I’m right as rain,” John quipped, his assuring smile widening to the point that it almost felt genuine on his face. It may actually have reached sincerity if he didn’t right then realize how much of a headache he truly had. Sleep hadn’t done a thing to alleviate the pain… If anything…he maybe felt worse? …He wasn’t positive…nor was he in the mood to evaluate the situation.

Paul smiled finally, feeling slightly eased by the surfacing of his friend’s well-known cynicism, “Well, you can ‘ave a proper slumber when we get in.” With that, he turned away from him, his eyes finally following Ringo’s out the window to their sea of fans, “So this is it, huh?” he questioned in amazement, “The fabled New York City…Bloody incredible! Looks even better the second time around.”

“It’s like we’re on an undiscovered planet,” Ringo offered, his tone awestruck, “and we’re surrounded by aliens!”

“Try not to get too close to the lot of ‘em. Might be rabid, y’know,” George quipped, “‘Ave ye’ all ‘ad yer shots?”

Both Paul and Ringo shared a laugh that seemed only for the sole purpose of covering up the ominous unease that had settled within the confined quarters of the limo. Just what were they getting themselves into? These Americans were borderline crazy it seemed.

The command to exit came quicker than expected and three eager Beatles rose out of their seats, the lull of their fans placing them into a trance. With George leading the way, they filed out, Ringo stopping to glance back at John who to his surprise hadn’t moved. “Y’coming, John?” he asked tentatively.

John jumped, seemingly having been lost in his head for the entire preceding moment and after struggling to regain his confident composure, nodded. In his less-than glory, he forgot to flash his trademark reassuring grin that signaled that all was right with him and Ringo found himself studying his band mate, his eyes narrowing in concern, “What’s the matter with ye’ today?” he asked.

John grimaced, all but loving the questions being thrown at him as of late, “Nothing…” he answered almost too quickly, “M’fine…just a bit knackered as usual. Nothing to get yer knickers twisted over…”

Ringo didn’t look completely convinced but he nodded and proceeded to make his way out the limo door. John followed Ringo’s lead and stepped out of the limo into the hot sun. It was then when the raucous unrelenting roaring of their fans managed to permeate the haze that was his mind that it truly dawned on him what exactly was happening. He winced, letting out an uncharacteristic whimper as the continuous noise pounded against his eardrum like the onslaught of nagging locusts. The unrelenting sunlight did nothing to help as it seemed suddenly too bright, forcing him to squint against it. Through it, the fans were barely visible but they were certainly audible. Girls screamed as he walked by while struggling to give off the effect that he felt fantastic. He smiled, he waved, he smiled some more, but it all felt like he was going through the motions, as if someone far away was controlling his very actions like he was nothing more than just a puppet. Or better yet, he felt weirdly like he was watching himself from afar…if that bloody well made any sense. Briefly, he brought a hand to his forehead and dragged it down his face as if trying to physically rip away the strange haze he felt surrounded him. Fuck, was he cracking up? Losing it? “Yer in fucking New York City, Lennon,” the guitarist wearily told himself, “Do yerself a favor…snap out of it!”

A hand grabbed him suddenly and he turned, startled, gazing into the eyes of a woman with a camera. The minute eye contact was made; she snapped a picture, the intense flash of the camera’s bulb, disorienting him completely. Blinking rapidly, John struggled to see through the after-burn image the light left on his retinas. The attempt proved futile as dizziness quickly took over him, swaying him slightly on his feet. Fuck…was he passing out…? Within seconds, another hand grabbed him and yanked him firmly forward. He could hear bits and pieces of conversation that he assumed were directed at him, but the words were lost on him in the crazy that surrounded him.

He was ushered suddenly into an air-conditioned environment where the light was much dimmer, forcing his bleary eyes to readjust. He grimaced, realizing they now ached. Not his eyes themselves, but the sockets behind them emanated a deep pulsating ache that seemed to pour into his very being. His eyelids felt ridiculously heavy and his eyes themselves burned an incredible amount without much in the way of relief. And to add to his much developed resume of misery, the very headache that had been with him the majority of the day seemed to be worsening. The terrible throbbing that had once seemed to radiate from his forehead only, had spread down his entire face to his surrounding neck area and around to the entire back of his head. Even his outer ears hurt, which the fans were currently all but helping. It was becoming quite obvious to him that he wasn’t feeling all that well. Still, he plodded on, a person that may or may not be Mal, guiding him through the hotel lobby towards the elevator where Ringo waited for him.

“…It was dangerous and uncalled for, Lennon. Poor judgment, really. What were you thinking?” his companion was barking, his words suddenly coming into auditory range, “You should know that you’re unauthorized to wander in that close to the barriers. You’re bloody lucky it was only press that managed to get a hold of ye’ and not someone with worse motives! You’ve nearly gone and endangered yourself! Of all the stupid, bloody, idiotic, piss-poor…”

Mal, John realized, good ol’ Mal. But what was he on about? Endangering? Wandering? He hadn’t wandered anywhere near the bloody barriers…or had he? …Details that had been unclear to begin with, only seemed to scramble and conceal themselves even further out of reach. He felt muddle-headed, like everything from his neck up was filled with heavy, heated, throbbing sand. On top of that, he couldn’t really think straight…or at all. John heaved a sigh, what in bleeding hell was going on with him today, anyway?

“Are y’listening, Lennon?” Mal asked, turning to gaze sharply at John.

Without really looking at him, John managed a feeble nod, wincing a bit, as pain engulfed his face. In all honesty, he couldn’t wait to stop walking. His head pounded unremittingly with each step, pushing him to the point that he felt obligated to bite his tongue to keep the discomfort from showing on his face and to refrain from maybe losing his breakfast all over the fanciful lobby of the four-star hotel they were staying at. He hoped he’d be able to get his hands on some painkillers before the show. Somehow, he felt like his life depended on it…

Ringo frowned as John entered the elevator with Mal on his heels. Not only did his friend look much worse for wear, but he seemed awfully peaky, his features abnormally sunken and wan, making even more obvious, the dark circles beneath his eyes. Even his eyes lacked their usual mischievous light, just appearing tired and empty and for John, that was saying a lot.

“What happened?” Ringo asked almost immediately, not failing to notice as well, the irritated look on Mal’s face.

John shook his head in tired frustration; forcibly avoiding his friend’s concerned eyes.

The elevator jerked suddenly upward after Mal pressed the numbers that corresponded with the floor their room suite was situated on. John seemed to pale even more and Ringo watched, feeling unnerved as he noticed the guitarist’s right hand find his forehead. At one point, he even closed his eyes as if feeling physically sick, “Fucking ‘ead…” he muttered wearily.

Mal turned to him, frowning in sudden concern, “What’s the matter? Yer not feeling ill are ye’?” he asked, speaking the words that had been momentarily building on Ringo’s tongue.

“Just a bloody ‘eadache…” John admitted quietly, “Can’t seem to shake this one off…” His words seemed to slur slightly together, having nothing of its usual control in the way of articulation. By the looks of it, John didn’t seem to have the energy to provide such control.

“Well, please take something when y’get the chance,” Mal told him, “M’job’s hard enough without having to worry about one of y’blokes bloody well keeling over.”

John nodded in response, frowning slightly as he realized he still felt a bit dizzy, “A meal…may help too…” he added exhaustedly as the realization dawned on him.

“I’ve been telling ye’ to eat all bleeding day, John!” Ringo hissed at him, risking what could be the unleashing of John’s well-known temper, “You’ve barely eaten today. What did you expect was going t’happen? No wonder yer bloody feeling ill! We got a show tonight, Lennon. And in case you weren’t aware, it’s in fucking New York City, here in the bloody United States! No way are y’complicating things by running yerself into an early grave!”

“I’ll eat dinner, mummy,” John responded just to shut his little friend up. He fought a sudden urge to cough, coming to terms with a tickle that at some point had seemed to slip into his throat. He hoped he wasn’t fucking coming down with something… Being a bearer of asthma, illnesses usually claimed him hard and fast and already he felt as though he had one foot in the grave…

“Please don’t disappoint me, Johnny,” Ringo pleaded as the elevator doors opened, revealing their floor.


	3. I Feel Fine

Already situated in their hotel suite which consisted of two separate sets of bedrooms and two bathrooms joined by a kitchen/dining/living room environment, Paul and George looked up from their seats on hotel furniture as they were suddenly and hastily joined by John and Ringo.

“Well, ‘ere ye’ two are,” Paul acknowledged, throwing them each a grin. “Y’know, the luggage arrived before you,” he added matter-of-factly.

Ringo couldn’t help but stare at him incredulously as he crossed the room and helped himself to an arm of the sofa his band mates had situated themselves on. Paul looked and seemed the least bit tired out of all of them and seemed even more alert now than even before they’d reached the hotel. It was like he constantly fed off their fans’ energy, a trait not just admirable to him but he was certain, admirable to the others as well. In his honest opinion, Paul was in a way, the heart of the band; strong, sturdy, and unwavering when it mattered most. Now only if energy was contagious. They could all use it right about then. Especially, he glanced uneasily to the guitarist that hadn’t moved from his position in front of the door since they’d walked in, John…

“Y’blokes get lost?” George asked, breaking the silence that had fallen since Paul had spoken what seemed like ages ago, “Paulie ‘ere was considering getting Mal on the phone to make sure y’guys didn’t get mauled or something.”

“We weren’t that long!” Ringo protested, “So y’guys ‘ave been ‘ere what…five minutes tops?”

“Nine, actually.” George stated with a tired shrug.

“Ten.” Paul corrected him as if one minute made all the difference in the world.

“And ‘ere I was thinking y’gits couldn’t count,” John muttered disinterestedly, breaking his own silence. He had turned slightly away from them, his head tilted slightly back against the wall as he pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, eyes squeezed tightly shut. A barely visible grimace was planted on his face where a sardonic smirk would normally have been after such a comment.

“Yeah, we’re full of surprises,” Paul replied casually. His tone remained light but his eyes dark as he eyed his best mate. “Got a headache, Johnny?”

Headache…shoulder aches…arms, legs, back ache… Bloody everything was beginning to ache. But rather than play a game of ‘Guess What’s Bothering John Lennon’, he finally succumbed into a tired nod. “‘Aven’t been able to permanently shake the git of a thing all day…” he added, words just tumbling tiredly from his mouth. He started to grin as if the nagging situation had humorous potential, but stopped abruptly as three pairs of annoyingly concerned eyes only continued to glare back at him.

Paul frowned, beginning to wonder what should worry him more. The fact that John had been nursing an unexplained headache all day, or the fact that he was openly admitting to his discomfort like the nancy he’d see himself as without the additional prying it usually took.

George seemed to be wondering the same thing, “Fuck, Johnny, yer not coming down with something now, are ye’?” he asked hesitantly.

“Just need to get some sleep is all,” John assured him, easing into a tired smile as he made his way towards the end of the couch opposite Ringo, “Don’t remember the last time I’ve felt so bloody knackered. Starts to make y’feel like crap after a while…” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his pack of Marlboros and in what proved to be a rather clumsy manner; removed a cigarette and shoved it in his mouth as if his life depended on it. Ever paying attention to the subtle details about him, Paul readily supplied a box of matches along with an ashtray and watched with mild interest as John proceeded to light up, tension melting instantly from his face after the first puff.

Ringo’s frown matched Paul’s, “How y’gonna sleep with all the bloody racket surrounding this place? Fans are more relentless around here than I’ve ever seen!”  
The Beatles liked to think of their fans as anything but nuisances. They were far from that, really. They loved them, appreciated their support a full twenty-four hours a day, performed for them, participated in interviews for them, all without question or hesitation. They were used to the publicity that came with worldwide fame, but tours consisted of all of this in nonstop overdrive, and needless to say, there was no rest for the weary.

John brushed off the concern with one of his trademark grins, though this one a little more wilted than usual. “A pack of wolves mauling me innards couldn’t even keep me awake right now.”

Both George and Ringo gained laughter from the completely graphic Lennon-like statement, but Paul remained pensive much to John’s dismay. The guitarist found himself rolling his eyes at his friend’s still obvious concerns. “Christ, relax, Paulie, would ye’?” he sighed, his trademark grin fading at the prospect that it suddenly felt too heavy to hold, “Last I checked, I’m not about to keel over,” God, but his face hurt. How was that even possible?

Paul didn’t answer, instead taking the time to really assess his friend and his obvious lack of good judgment. Was it his imagination or did John seem much paler than when he’d seen him last? The unasked question went unanswered as a sudden and violent string of curses broke the evaluation process, drawing all eyes in John’s direction. Wordlessly, Paul noted the dropped pack of cigarettes at John’s feet and the aggravated look on his face as he glared daggers at it.  
“Nice one!” George commented ever so helpfully as he looked on in tired amusement.

John didn’t say anything as he continued to glare at the cigarettes, debating in his mind whether to pick them up or just leave them there. Currently, he felt as though he might as well be staring down at them from the top of Mount Everest on the very floor they were situated on.

Without much more in the way of thought, he hopped off the couch and stooped down to reach them, the rapid change in position all but keeping him steady. The results were unexpected as he plunged suddenly forward, just managing to break his fall with his hands. At some point, the lit cigarette had fallen from his mouth but he couldn’t be bothered to figure out where. His entire world was on a merry-go-round. If he didn’t stop it, he’d surely be sick. He closed his eyes and tilted his head down, barely aware as Paul crept up beside him and placed a hand on his shoulder. “John, what’s the matter?” he asked, slight worry permeating his voice.

Listing slightly where he sat, John gave his head a slight shake before lifting his eyes to his friend’s level. The dizziness abated itself, leaving a bit of mild nausea in its wake. “Nothing…I’m fine…Me contacts are bugging me…” he muttered, proceeding to rub at his eyes.

“Ye’ dropped yer smokes,” George supplied from somewhere in the background.

“And this,” Ringo inserted his hand in front of John’s face and handed him his still lit cigarette, “Set the place on fire ye’ will,” he added as if John had purposely meant to drop it.

Groaning slightly, John rose to his feet and eased himself back onto the sofa. He bloody felt like shit. Still there was a nagging something he needed to do before it completely slipped his mind. He needed to fulfill a check in with his aunt and wife; let them know he was okay and vice versa. With the eventful evening they had scheduled, it seemed now was the only time he would get to do so unless he waited until tomorrow when they ended up in New Jersey. Presently, the latter seemed almost beneficial with the way he was feeling but getting it over with and done seemed even better…or did it? Blimey, when did thinking become such a bloody challenge?

Currently Cynthia Lennon was staying with his aunt Mimi where she could receive help with their son Julian while John toured with the Beatles. Last he heard, things were going well, but shamefully, it had been a few days since he’d last checked in and he was sure to get an earful from both parties.

A while back before the Beatles had even begun touring, both Mimi and Cyn had separately made him promise that when fame officially took flight and he found himself shuttling from country to country performing, he wouldn’t fail to ring home no matter what circumstances got in the way. Mimi hadn’t been in favor of his music career to begin with but had reluctantly allowed it, knowing that John stubbornly had his mind set on it.

“The least you can do when you’re out gallivanting around with those boys,” Mimi had disdainfully told him, “is ring when you can; preferably every time you enter a new setting.” She had then followed up with a thorough explanation about how it would leave her with less room for worry and more room for content. Since then, John had always managed to check in; only failing to do so when something stood between him and a phone. Today, however, his family had barely crossed his mind until that very moment. Was that unusual?

“John!” Ringo tore abruptly into his thoughts, his sudden unexpected increase in tone practically shattering his eardrums.

“Bloody, ‘ell, what is it?!” John snapped, turning to him in resulting anger, “Can’t bloody think with all the racket going on around ‘ere!”

“You were right staring into space,” Paul stated mildly in Ringo’s defense, “Is that what it takes to get a thought out these days?” He had meant the latter as a slight joke but John didn’t seem to pick up on it nor did he pick up on its evident lameness which was unusual considering the endless wit he was normally equipped with.  
John stared at him blankly for several seconds before eventually finding his tongue. “What?” was all he could readily manage for lack of a better response.

“Nothing…” Paul muttered, the wind having been sucked from his sails, “It was… nothing…”

John blinked blearily struggling to assess whatever it was Paul was going on about but gave up within seconds of even trying. His stupid headache was sucking the life and sense out of him. “Never mind then,” he muttered disinterestedly, his anger subsiding, “I’ve gotta ring home` ‘fore I forget. Where’s the bleedin’ phone?”

“Right in front of you, John,” Paul supplied gesturing to the table positioned slightly to their right. He offered his friend a questioning look, “You sure you’re all right?”

John didn’t answer, instead taking the time to reach for the phone. He almost didn’t feel up to the task at hand as feeble as it was. In fact, talking was the last thing he felt like doing period, let alone on the phone when he was barely capable of even thinking. Cyn would be sure to talk his ear off and Mimi… He was feeling considerably under the weather and he was almost certain the older woman, as perceptive, as she was would be able to pick up on it. She was like Paul in that sense. Always seemed to know what was going on behind the scenes. John had the feeling she was sitting by the phone at that very moment just waiting to hear from him. He didn’t have it in his heart to bring himself to disappoint…

He dialed the number and cradled the receiver to his ear, grimacing slightly as several harsh rings resultantly vibrated his aching eardrums. He was almost thankful when his aunt’s familiar voice finally filled his ears. “Hello?” she spoke, crisp and clear..

“Hello, Mimi, it’s John,” John responded, clearing his throat as it chose that very moment to crack inconveniently. It was strange how one could never realize how much they truly missed someone until they were given the opportunity to talk to them after what seemed like ages of limited contact. It made him unexpectedly emotional in a weird way. Homesick almost…

“I see you’ve finally decided to take time from your busy schedule to check in, John.” was Mimi’s displeased reply, “We’ve been waiting to hear from you.”  
Flooded by slight guilt, John was lost for words.

“Well, how are you?” Mimi prodded, her voice warming slightly.

“A-all right,” John stuttered, forcing himself to shake off his aunt’s less than cheery greeting, “I’m in New York now. We…” He paused to clear his throat again, frowning at the incessantly growing tickle that was asserting itself undesirably at the increased use of his voice, “We have a show tonight. Thought I’d call and check in before the craziness began.” He grimaced at how hoarse he sounded.

“What’s the matter with your voice?” Mimi asked suddenly, suspicion already gripping her tone, “Aren’t you feeling well?”

“Nothing, it’s…I’m fine,” John ensured rather quickly, in no mood for her immediate scrutiny, “How’re things? How’re Cyn and Julian?”

“Oh, they’re fine. Cynthia’s out for the day running errands and Julian’s down for a kip, sleeping soundly like a little angel. Looks just like you when he sleeps, he does.”

John managed a faint grin, “Ye’ make that sound like it’s a good thing!”

“It is!” Mimi replied. She paused as if trying to recall something, “You should know, John, that that wife of yours has been in contact with those other ladies you boys are associated with. Seems to me like they might be planning to come see the lot of you sometime in the near future. Right daft if you ask me. Meanwhile, I’ll be stuck with your child like a bloody nanny! Let me tell you, John, I don’t approve. Reap what you sew I always say. She was foolish enough to have your child, she-”

“When?” John interrupted, unable to take her ranting anymore. He was achingly tired and his head was spinning.

“I don’t know. You’ll have to speak with her when you get the chance.”

John started to nod before sheepishly remembering that his aunt couldn’t see him through the phone and quickly proceeded to respond, ignoring a puzzled glance aimed at him courtesy of his band mates. “That sounds great, Mimi,” he murmured, his tone lacking the genuine enthusiasm he had meant for it to portray. He grimaced, realizing his body was choosing some of the worst moments to announce its misery. “Send me love to her and Julian, will ye’?”

“Are you all right, John?” Mimi demanded, “You don’t sound like yourself.”

“I’m fine… Just a bit knackered is all,” John muttered quietly, not feeling up to giving his stubborn headache the recognition it didn’t deserve. “Nothing serious, really…”

“Are you sure?” Mimi questioned, and John could almost see her suspiciously arched eyebrow as she attempted to bait him, “You wouldn’t dare keep anything from your aunt, now would you?”

John sighed, momentarily closing his eyes against his incessantly pounding head. “Yes, I’m sure, Mimi…” He wanted nothing better than to wrap things up so he could have a proper smoke and catch a kip, as selfish as that sounded. His aunt was driving him mad and honestly he didn’t have the energy to put up with her lack of tolerance towards everything. “Look, I just wanted to check in t’see how things were going and…”

“You have to go, don’t you?” Mimi interrupted knowingly, “Well okay, Johnny. I know how busy you are.”

“I’ll call in a few days, all right?” John assured her.

“I’ll expect it,” Mimi responded, “And whatever’s bothering you, love, take care of it. I’d hate for you to fall ill so far away from home.”

John smiled, “I’ll see to it. Love ye’, Mim.”

“Love you too, Johnny. I mean it when I say take care of yourself,” she paused, “Oh and John?”

“Yeah?”

“When we speak next, I should hope I won’t hear a single trace of that Liverpudlian rubbish you’ve been carelessly tossing about these days. Your mother allowed it, but I won’t. It’s unbecoming.”

John rolled his eyes, “Mimi-”

“I allowed it to slide today because frankly you don’t sound like you’re feeling quite up to par but-”

“I have to go.” John interrupted before hanging up. He glanced to his friends briefly before looking away in exhaustion-laden disinterest. “Me aunt says hi,” he murmured indifferently. Taking a drag from his cigarette, he closed his eyes temporarily and rubbed at his aching temples. His head ached all over.

“Who ye’ kidding, Johnny,” Ringo told him with a half-hearted smirk, “We all know she doesn’t like us.”

John shrugged, “She’s just a bit standoffish, really.”

“How’s Cyn?” George asked, coming to the conclusion of his own that he needed to ring his own girlfriend at some point during the day.

“She’s all right. Julian too…” John responded absently. He figured he should probably mention something about Cyn and the girls planning to visit but…that would lead to more words and he was bloody fed up of talking.

Sensing a pair of eyes on him, he turned back towards his friends, catching Paul’s dark worrisome eyes focused on none other than him. Despite his growing annoyance, he met them with an air of tired amusement. “I know ye’ think I’m pretty, Macca, but if ye’ could resist staring at me, I’d be right grateful…” he stated simply.

“Don’t flatter yerself…” Paul muttered, “Yer not exactly my type.”

“Not what you said last night,” John quipped, taking a final drag from his cigarette before snuffing it out and tossing it into the ashtray. When Paul didn’t respond, John knew the musician was upset with him. Somehow though, he wasn’t all that bothered by it. People talked about his temper, but Paul could be just as much of a hothead when the situation fit.

The uneasy silence only continued to deepen and John absently found himself filling it with a tune familiar to all of them. Before the others knew it, he was singing softly in a detached manner.

“There’s a place  
Where I can go  
When I feel low  
When I feel blue…

And it’s my mind  
And there’s no time when I’m alone…”

Paul couldn’t take it anymore. “Look at ye’ self, John. Yer bloody, fucking pale, clearly knackered as all ‘ell!” he exploded, unable to keep his thoughts to himself any longer, “You’ve been bleedin’ out of it all day and truthfully I’m not even sure y’even know what yer doing anymore!”

George couldn’t help nearly jumping out of his skin at the bassist’s sudden outburst. He turned to him wide-eyed, and then glanced to John who to his surprised didn’t seem all that affected despite being the recipient of Paul’s anger. He looked out of it if anything, as though the situation hadn’t quite registered within his mind. His contemplative gaze was fixated on the ceiling in such a manner; it seemed something of entertaining measure had presented itself beneath it only to him.

“Tends to ‘appen when ye’ ‘aven’t properly slept in months…” John stated with quiet nonchalance after awhile, his slightly amused gaze unmoving from the ceiling’s surface.

“Well, I don’t think it’s healthy what you’re forcing yer body through!” Paul stated firmly, “Y’keep going on like this, you’ll surely end up ill…Ask George…”

“Aye, it’s true,” George piped up from the other side of Paul.

John allowed his eyes to close, his lids sliding over the burning orbs like warm blankets. Had it been up to him, he’d choose not to reopen them for the rest of the day. “So let’s stop the tour, then,” he muttered apathetically, heavy sarcasm lacing his voice, “Bring it to a dead halt, and see how that works out with Eppy, Mal, and our fans… Of course we’ve been planning this for months but ‘ey why not throw away all that we’ve bloody well worked for? And while we’re at it, I might as well give me mum back the guitar she bought me. Tell ‘er, to ‘ell with it all. Oh wait, I can’t… Know why? She’s bloody, fucking dead and guess what? She’s not coming back…” He allowed his voice to trail off, his mind suddenly failing to form more words. “Just leave me alone,” he muttered, “Me head’s killing me as it is.”

“Don’t be a git, John,” George told him calmly, “We’re just concerned is all.”

“Well don't be…” John grumbled, his eyes still closed, “I feel fine. Just this… bloody headache…”

Paul shook his head, his frustrations only continuing to grow with John’s lack of focus on the situation, “Are ye’ sure it’s just a headache and nothing more? Be honest, I don’t have time for games!”

“If I answer, will ye’ shut up?” John asked; his tone and antics remaining blasé much to Paul’s annoyance, “Making me headache worse, ye’ are,” He forcefully reopened his eyes and dropped his gaze from the ceiling to his friend, the tired amusement within them remaining in adamant control.

“Maybe…” Paul muttered without any real conviction.

John rolled his eyes, despite the additional ache the action brought on, “I’m fine then, Macca…No need to get yer knickers in a bloody twist.”

“That’s not what I asked!” Paul snapped, “I’m not letting you dance yer way around this one, Lennon! I know what yer perfectly capable of.”

“I’m sorry, yer magistrate. Didn’t bloody realize I was on trial,” John quipped, his amusement in regards to the situation becoming only slightly unnerving at this point.

Both George and Ringo exchanged glances, each knowing what the other was thinking. Had John finally lost it?

“Christ, can’t ye’ be serious for even a second?” Paul demanded.

No one spoke, unsure of what to make of the budding situation. Ringo got up from his seat, deciding he could use something cold to drink right then, while George contemplated a nap of his own.

‘Can’t ye’ not be serious fer a second?’ John wanted to counter just to further piss Paul off, but…he was quickly getting sick of the back and forth. He frowned, realizing he wasn’t in the mood for any of this, really. He felt he was losing his grip on reality as it was. He needed sleep before he lost it completely. “C’mon Paul…” he sighed, a hint of truce hidden within his tone, “Where’s me room in this bloody place?”

“Where’s me answer, John?” Paul threw back, mockingly, his sharp gaze not lifting from his friend. He held up a shiny key and dangled it in front of him. “Y’won’t be able to get in without this and you won’t get it until you give me what I’m asking for.”

At any other moment, John would’ve smirked his appreciation regarding Paul’s bold blackmail attempt. Perhaps throw in a proud comment about how he was finally rubbing off on the goody-goody, but given the current circumstances, he just didn’t bloody well feel like it. Nor did he feel like fighting him for the key, though in his mind, he knew he had what it took to get his hands on it. “It’s just me head…” he murmured quietly, by way of satisfactory response, “M’bloody, fucking, ‘ell of a head…” That ought to satisfy the pest in him…

“Good boy,” Paul confirmed, appearing visually satisfied, “But if I find out you’re lying, Lennon, so help me, the little slumber yer about to embark on just might become permanent.”

‘And now a threat,’ John mused inwardly, his tired mind understanding that much. He’d really have to commemorate Paul later if he remembered…at a time when he didn’t feel ready to kill him…or keel over…

Paul stood up finally; feeling smug at the realization that he’d gotten John Lennon to back down in a way that most weren’t capable of, “Now let’s see to that room of yers, shall we?”

“If I had the energy, I’d see to me fist and yer scrawny frame…” John grumbled grudgingly, not entirely sure if the statement even made sense. It didn’t sound right to him for some reason, but he wasn’t sure if he even cared. He was fucking cold again; though his face felt annoyingly warm, seeming to make his head hurt even worse than it was already pounding. He fought back a shiver and glanced down at his arms, noticing instantly, the sprouting of goose bumps. With a growing feeling of trepidation, he grimaced, realizing he might actually be getting chills…

“‘Ey, John…?” Paul’s voice suddenly cut into his thoughts and he glanced up feeling strangely dazed and a bit disoriented. At some point, Paul had gotten up and was already standing in front of him; that increasingly worried gaze fixated on him. When the fuck had that happen? He blinked, unable to contain his surprise at his band mate’s new-found stealth. “Wh-what?” he stuttered uncharacteristically, causing both Ringo and George to gaze with wonderment in his direction.

“Are you sure you feel all right?” Paul asked, frowning again. Without warning, he reached out a hand to place once again to his friend’s forehead, just making contact beneath the long bangs for a few seconds before he was hastily pushed away.

“Leave me alone, I’m fine…” John snapped.

“He got a fever?” Ringo asked from the kitchen area, his bright blue eyes displaying concern, “Should I get Eppy to send fer a doctor?”

“I don’t have a bloody fever, y’git!” John growled at him. His glare shifted to Paul, “I don’t have a fever,” he repeated sharply.

Paul’s frown deepened. Much like earlier, John still seemed a bit on the warm side, but then again it was also a hot day. He shook his head slowly, “Rain check on that one, Rings,” he sighed reluctantly, not quite in favor of making a mountain out of a molehill. He glanced back to John and was nearly surprised to see that the guitarist seemed to be rapidly losing his battle to stay awake, “Right, yer room…” he sighed, realizing how far off track he’d managed to get. They were losing precious time, the hours to show time ticking away with every passing second.

“Sod off, y’bloody wanker, I’ll find me room meself, “John grumbled, “Don’t need a bloody key. I can pick a lock.” Blinking blearily, he rose achingly to his feet, grimacing slightly as a dull pain shot up the base of his spine. The time of day had registered as well within his haggard mind, and a slight fear passed through him regarding whether he’d actually be able to feel better in time for their big night. In all truth and honesty, he didn’t, dare he think it, feel good at all. Fuck, if he didn’t somehow manage to sleep this off, Eppy, Mal, and the band would have his head for sure…not that the thought seemed so bad at the moment… The bloody thing was killing him…

“Y’barely found the hotel, what makes you think you can find your room?” Paul teased, succeeding in lightening the mood. Before John could say anything in response, Paul was practically on top of him, an arm draped around him in a playful brotherly fashion. For a split second, Paul found himself regressing back into a frown as he was almost certain he could feel a bit of heat radiating from the back of John’s neck where his bare arm made contact… But somehow, he managed to convince himself otherwise… “Y’wake up looking worse for wear, I’m sending for a doctor,” he warned his friend, nonetheless, as he led him out of the room.


	4. It Won't Be Long

Constant jetlag. ‘Easily one of the top worst things about touring all the time,’ Ringo mused as he made his way from the kitchen back over towards the sofa, seating himself beside a seemingly napping George. Jetlag and the altered, irregular sleeping patterns they were awkwardly forced to grow accustomed to. It was bad enough sleep would become minimal in the midst of all the infinite excitement and deafening chaos that would habitually surround a band’s life of excursion but add jetlag to the mix and it was a wonder they were able to get through a single period of two consecutive days while in the act of thriving. It would wear on them after a while, sometimes claiming them one by one…or two at a time.

The Beatles each had different ways of coping with life on tour. To be able to cope was a necessity; more so, a means of survival not just when it came to touring but overall. All in all, it kept them from the increasing possibility of going mad. Paul, when he wasn’t writing songs with John or teaching himself new chords on his bass guitar; liked a bit of sightseeing on the side to help him unravel and keep things in perspective. Though chances to do so were minimal, they could sometimes talk Eppy and Mal into making a few hours of it, if their schedules allowed for it.

George, when he wasn’t consuming half his weight in grub or lost within the grips of a good book; would frequently unwind with the Eastern art of meditation. He would sit cross-legged for hours in a single spot with eyes closed, palms outstretched over his knees; positioned in what he called the ‘lotus position’. He’d then somehow allow himself to escape mercifully into a different realm from which he would return completely rejuvenated. Ringo would sometimes watch him in a state of awe and wonder how he could always manage to pull off such a feat. George would attempt to show him, but the overall effect was never quite the same for the drummer, though it did often succeed in calming him.

John, when he wasn’t writing songs with Paul, lost in the midst of infinite artistic talent, or poetry writing; would repeatedly find his brightness at night in the form of benders, a pub-crawls, or a binges, so to speak. The Beatles would all come together for that, sometimes staying out into the wee hours of the morning.

While going out on benders had its perks, it would consequently make things a bit more difficult the morning after as they would then proceed to drag themselves out of bed with accompanying hangovers and struggle to get to whatever event it was Eppy would have scheduled for them. For reasons of the like and overall tour life in general, it was recommended they take uppers to keep above the wave of exhaustion that would otherwise claim them. Paul was least in favor of it, as he didn’t like the way it would subsequently make him feel. He’d indulge in it though, more as a necessity when things got a bit rough and hard to handle, which it did more so than any of the Beatles would care to admit.

John would find himself popping them like mad as sleep had been all but obtainable for him as of late. He’d become excessively animated as a result, almost frenzied in a way before it eventually wore off and he’d have to take another to achieve similar status. While it did him good for the moment in time he was seeking an energy boost, such an act when repeated immoderately over an extended period of time would as a result, wear on him; especially when used incorrectly in place of sleep as it had been over much of the tour. In addition, he was drinking heavily whenever he could to the point that he would find himself spending his nights vomiting before passing out cold in the strangest of places. “I clearly can’t sleep on me own with all our fans’ incessant yammerin’ penetratin’ me noggin, so how else am I s’pposed to pass the time?” was his logic, “I drink, I pass out…Must make up fer something wouldn’t ye’ think?”

“Drunken sleep is by no means restful,” Paul had forcefully tried to argue.

“What’re ye’ a doctor now?” John had indignantly thrown back, “Did I miss yer transition from Beatle to doctor in the blink of an eye, McCartney?”

Paul had shaken his head, bewildered, “I’m just worried about ye’, y’know,” he had reasoned.

John had broken out into a fleeting grin, “I know, but sometimes ye’ worry a bit too much fer me liking.”

“If yer not used to it by now, ye’ might as well get used to it,” Paul had firmly responded, “There’s more where that came from.”

“Was afraid you’d say that,” John had muttered with a defeated sigh before dismissing himself prematurely from the conversation.

The Beatles were most unnerved by the rhythm guitarist’s recently acquired antics. John was barely sleeping and therefore his body wasn’t healing itself from the recurrent trials of their daily lives. As a result, he was running himself down into the ground and from their perspective; it had become quite obvious he was beginning to suffer. Three concerned band mates and sometimes Eppy and Mal had addressed John numerous times in regards to his path to destruction. They had warned him time and time again that his lack of sleep would eventually break him in the long run and that he couldn’t keep carrying on the way he was. John, in his frazzled state, hadn’t been in favor of all the unwanted attention to begin with and had sharply accused them of wrongly targeting him. “Christ, I ‘aven’t properly slept since we left Liverpool,” he had remarked angrily, “I’m half mad as it is! Y’think I’m bloody doing this because I want to? How the fuck else am I supposed to survive this ‘ell?!” The Beatles had backed down at that, not quite knowing how to proceed without further upsetting their temperamental band mate.

Though he would often try to hide it, John was knackered all the time regardless of the plethora of uppers he would readily consume. Often, the Beatles would just sit back and observe him, wondering amongst themselves when it would all eventually catch up with him. Several times, Paul had wanted to send for a doctor to see if they could correct the insomnia aspect of the problem, but John had jumped down his throat at the attempt. “I’m fucking fine, y’git!” he had growled, “Stop being such a nancy boy and leave me be!” That had been a mere five days ago. The Beatles only continued to drown in worry and John only continued to run himself down.

In all honesty, Ringo had noticed for days now that John hadn’t been looking up to par but he had seemed all right otherwise or rather what passed for all right on this most unusual of tours, so he hadn’t felt the budding need to bring it up. With the surfacing of today, however, it had become blatantly obvious just how physically, mentally, and emotionally rundown the rhythm guitarist rightly was becoming. It was embedded within his antics, within his very being, really. Ringo could see it, and the rest of the band could see it. Ringo couldn’t help frowning with concern at the mere realization. Perhaps, he could talk John into just one drink tonight, should they decide to go out following the show and press conference. He knew John wasn’t feeling particularly well today either, whether he wanted to come to terms with it or not, and with things in constant prolonged overdrive as it had been, the band couldn’t afford the inconvenience of him falling to illness. If that meant forcing him to lay low for a few nights then so be it. John wouldn’t readily acknowledge it, but he’d be thanking him in the long run as their touring days wore on.

Ringo sighed, temporarily allowing his eyes to close. It was already shaping up to be one of those long days and they still had several suspense-filled hours to go prior to show time. It was moments like these that found him desperately wishing there was a switch somewhere capable of controlling the sequence of time. He’d flip it one way and find himself launched backwards into the midst of a previously played out event; one worth reliving. He’d flip it the other way and find himself propelled forward into the uncharted sea of uncertainty that was the future.

Currently, the future was sounding very good to the drummer. If it were up to him, he’d eliminate the band’s endless wait altogether, bringing them all to the doorstep of their upcoming performance. All they would need to do from then on was make it through the show and following press interview before coming into a bit of relaxation. Relaxation. That was all Ringo was truly looking forward to basking in once their day came to a close. That and the promise of a few drinks. They could all use a few drinks tonight, Ringo had readily concluded on the flight over. That and maybe a night out of some sort, a bit of a bender, to help them each unwind. They were in New York after all, and one might consider them mad if they didn’t stop to enjoy at least one aspect of it. He’d have to pitch the idea later to the band as a whole and see how they felt. Of course, with John’s current condition and George’s ongoing process of recovery, they wouldn’t overdo it, couldn’t afford to overdo it, as tomorrow was booked to the brim with events, one of which including their arrival in a never before been to state. Still, the desperate need to unwind…to unravel…to come away momentarily from everything was beginning to assert itself adamantly within Ringo’s mind.

“Cor, Rings, what’s got ye’ so pensive?” George asked rather suddenly, his words nearly startling the drummer from his seat. He’d nearly forgotten he wasn’t the only one left in the room.

“Blimey, George! Give a bloke a heart attack, ye’ will!” he responded with unraveling exasperation, turning to the guitarist with a resulting frown.

George tiredly grinned back at him, clearly amused with the happening, “‘Ey, you’ll live,” he replied with a pronounced air of nonchalance. He sat up a bit and rubbed at his eyes, considerably grainy from jetlag. “What’s got ye’ so pensive?” he repeated.

Ringo shrugged, finally allowing a halfhearted smile to grace his features, “Leave a bloke alone and his mind’s bound to run away with ‘im.” 

His words were met by George’s skeptical but inquisitive gaze. “Well, where’s yer mind off to, then?” the guitarist pried with piqued curiosity.

Ringo narrowed his eyes thoughtfully and dropped his gaze as he tried to think up a way to sum up the gist of his most recent thoughts. “…The upcoming show…touring…the life of a Beatle…” he rattled off.

“‘The Life of a Beatle’,” George echoed contemplatively, “Might make fer a good documentary, ye’ know… I’d tune in the moment it hits the telly.”

Ringo furrowed his brow in confusion at his younger band mate, “And why on earth should ye’ want to watch it, Geo? Yer living it firsthand!”

“It would star me, of course,” George responded without missing a beat, “As far as I’m concerned, that’s reason enough fer anyone to tune in.”

Ringo laughed again, “Cor blimey, it seems Johnny’s been rubbin’ off on ye’, mate! Yer right starting t’sound like ‘im!”

“And just what are ye’ insinuatin’, y’stupid git?” George responded, breaking out into his best Lennon-like impersonation, “Right bloody daft ye’ are! Keep takin’ the piss! Keep on with that load of bollocks, I dare ye’! Bloody fuckin’ ‘ell, I swear I’ll put the boot in ye’, I will!”

Ringo could all but keep a straight face at his friend’s impersonation of their beloved band mate. Good ol’ brash Johnny and that temper of his.

“‘Ey, what’s going on ‘ere, lads?” Paul’s voice suddenly filled the room, causing both George and Ringo to turn towards him in surprise. He was standing in the doorway, an amused smirk spread across his face.

“Georgie’s doing a Lennon impersonation,” Ringo revealed with an accompanying chuckle, “A right good one at that!”

“Oh?” Paul turned his gaze towards the guitarist an eyebrow arched with increasing interest.

“I got one fer ye’ as well, Macca,” George responded with a sly grin.

“Do ye’ now?” Paul replied casually, his smirk of amusement still firmly planted in place. He arched an eyebrow at his younger band mate in a challenging manner, “Well, let’s ‘ear it, then, Georgie,” he goaded teasingly, “I’m rather curious to know how I come off to ye’.”

George regarded the older man with ample suspicion, “Who ye’ kidding, Paulie? Yer not getting a thing from me that easily. Suck the fun out of it, ye’ will!” Truthfully, he was too tired to successfully launch himself into yet another impersonation when he felt the first one was mediocre at best. He fell suddenly serious, “How’s Johnny?” he asked genuinely.

“He’s out,” Paul affirmed, making his way finally into the room, “Didn’t take ‘im long neither. Mid-sentence, really, when he managed to drop off…”

“Must’ve been quite the boring topic, y’blokes were touching on,” George quipped, allowing his heavy, sleep-laden top eyelids to sweep down over his eyes. He allowed himself to embrace the bliss brought on by complete darkness, before glancing back at Paul with mild interest, “He seem all right otherwise?”

Paul shrugged, “Y’mean, other than the fact that he’s knackered to ‘ell and back and his head’s hampering his mood?”

“Well…yeah,” George responded, taking a moment to drink in Paul’s words, “I mean, ‘e doesn’t seem like he might be coming down with something does ‘e?”

Paul shrugged again, sinking into the sofa beside his friends, “John’s not always an open book as you all know…Sometimes, even I have a hard time reading him when he doesn’t want to be read.”

It was George’s turn to shrug, “Well what can we do then?”

“Nothing,” Paul replied, “Just keep an eye on him fer the remainder of the day I suppose, and send fer additional reserves if need be…”

“Y’mean a doctor?” Ringo asked, feeling slightly puzzled by Paul’s use of phrasing.

“Yes Rings, that is what I meant by additional reserves,” Paul clarified for him, “I gave ‘im some aspirin, nonetheless. ‘E must’ve downed five of ‘em at a time…”

Ringo frowned, “This whole thing’s a bloody drag…” he admitted with uncharacteristic unexpected darkness, “If John would just go on and say he’s not well, we could easily take matters into our own hands and ‘ave a doctor look at him, whatever it takes, and fix ‘im up before the show… But, he’s choosing to take the stubborn route as usual…and if it turns out that he’s actually falling ill down the road, we could easily be in worlds of trouble…and not just with Eppy and Mal neither.”

“That’s John fer ye’,” both Paul and George chorused in unison to each other’s instant annoyances. Their heads whipped simultaneously to face each other and a glaring showdown immediately took place.

“Y’took the words right from me mouth, y’bloody git!” George accused Paul, pointing a finger accusingly in his face.

“Aw sod off, y’wanker!” Paul countered, slapping George’s hand from his line of view.

One thing leading to another, it wasn’t long before they were tangled up in a full-out wrestle.

“If something should ‘appen while we’re performing…” Ringo spoke, his words bringing the brawl to an end. He paused, finding it unnecessary to finish his concerns.  
“Nothing will ‘appen,” George assured him, “Come off it, Rings. John will be fine.” He stifled a yawn and gazed lazily at Paul as the musician reached into his pocket for his stash of cigarettes.

“Anyone want a light?” Paul asked, offering a cigarette to each band mate present.

“I’ll take one,” Ringo sighed, reaching into the pack of Marlboros, “Feel like I could stand to calm my nerves,” He pulled out a long slender stick and reached into his pocket for a match before proceeding to light it.

“George?” Paul questioned, turning to him, “Smoke?”

George shook his head, “Nah, think I’m gonna follow in John’s footsteps and catch a bit of a kip meself.”

Paul didn’t move his gaze from his friend, noticing finally his blatantly growing tiredness. “Feel all right, Geo?” he asked warily, momentary concern gripping him for what seemed like the millionth time that day.

George nodded, rising tiredly to his feet, another bloody yawn escaping him, “Still a bit hampered from that flu I had and a bit jetlagged, I s’ppose.”

“You’d let on if ye’ felt right ill?” Paul pressed seriously.

George eyed him skeptically, “Well, what choice would I ‘ave? The lot of ye’ would beat it out of me, anyhow.”

Paul nodded with a slight grin, his attention returning to the process of lighting himself a cigarette, “Get some rest then, Georgie Porgie. Y’should be sleeping like a log.” He couldn’t help putting emphasis on his last statement, as it was a line taken slightly out of context from one of their most famous songs.

Ringo’s lips twitched into a small but appreciative smirk, “Been working like dogs, we ‘ave,” he quipped, taking another line from the song, out of context as well.

George arched an eyebrow at his friends, “It’s been a hard day’s night,” he articulated, releasing a slightly amused smile before turning to leave the room.

“Be up in a couple of hours,” Paul called after him, “Don’t make us have to wake you, Harrison.”

“We’ll sic Mal on ye’.” Ringo added good-naturedly, taking a drag from his cigarette, “Or worse…Eppy. That oughta prove to be a good time.”

The sound of a closing door met both Paul and Ringo’s ears. Despite George’s lack of response, neither of them had any doubt that the guitarist received the message loud and clear.

“Aren’t y’tired, Paul?” Ringo asked, turning his attention from the doorway George had left through to his remaining band mate.

“Nah,” Paul sighed, allowing himself a nice long drag from his cigarette, “Adrenaline.” He flashed a faint smile in Ringo’s direction, “You can nap though if y’want. I think I might try and write.”

Ringo shook his head, “Not tired, Paul. Mind if I join ye’? I know ye’ usually do most of yer best writing with John but…”

Paul shrugged, “Why not, I could use the company.” He eased slowly into a smile, “Who knows, we might even come up with a bit of something to put towards the next album!”

Ringo laughed as if the idea was right preposterous, “Now yer just taking the piss, Paul.”

“No, seriously!” Paul elucidated, his brown eyes narrowing convincingly on his older band mate and friend, “I rarely piss around in the face of such a serious matter!”  
Ringo shrugged, “Well, either way, we might as well make the best of things while we’re stuck ‘ere.” He managed a grin in spite of the dismal aspect of their current confinement, “There’s not much else we could be doing considering.”

“A right shame, really,” Paul murmured, pensively.

The inconvenience of being imprisoned in hotel after hotel while touring was enough to drive one mad. Ringo and John were especially subject to such relative frustrations often referring to themselves jokingly as prisoners confined to a cell. Nights out were their only real source of escape from the trials of stardom…that was until, they were eventually stalked and tracked down by crazed fans. God forbid the Beatles should ever be caught outside unguarded and undisguised in broad daylight. They’d be eaten up in a mere matter of seconds, never to be seen or heard from again. Though they gratefully appreciated to an extent, the pleasures of being recognized worldwide, it made them miss the noble tranquility of Britain all the more. Made them miss the slightly escalated freedom that came with familiar territory. In their beloved homeland, the Beatles were undoubtedly able to carry on with their daily lives without the incessant risk of being located and hassled. Of course, they would still come across the occasional crazed group of fanatics, but the overall threat was nothing as it was elsewhere. Nothing like it was here…

“I’d definitely settle fer a bit of a bender tonight if I can ‘elp it,” Ringo sighed yearningly, easing gently into Paul’s thoughts, “Not a big one, just enough to break away a bit from what’s become the norm and experience firsthand the magic of New York.”

Paul took in a deep drag from his cigarette and with a slight nod, thoughtfully put into slight consideration the pleasurable idea of what Americans knew to be a bar-crawl. It did sound rather called for. A rather good way to let off all the adrenaline they were more or less likely to pick up in the midst of all the excitement that was sure to take place that evening. They were smack in the middle of elegant, extravagant, world-renowned New York. Seeing how exploring its grounds during the day was out of question, why not get a taste of its lively nightlife while they had the chance? He turned to Ringo, a small mischievous smirk forming upon his face, “Ye’ think we could convince John to stay behind?” he quipped half-seriously, “I think he could do without a drink tonight.”

Ringo returned the smirk, “Not likely, though we could try to limit his alcohol intake.”

Paul arched an eyebrow at him, “And how ye’ suppose we’re gonna do that, Rings? Ye’ got a death wish or something?”

Ringo shrugged, “I haven’t gotten that far in me planning yet…” he admitted sheepishly.

Paul sighed. Try as he might, he just couldn’t seem to enthuse himself with the proposed idea of a night out. Perhaps it was the fact that jetlag was inconveniently beginning to make its presence known…or seemingly more obvious, the fact that his mind was considerably all over the place. “It is rather crazy out and our fans are right barmy, anyhow,” he responded absently, “I s’ppose it’s a matter of whether or not Mal would support us being out in that mess and whether he’d be willing to accompany us.”

“We ‘aven’t ‘ad a proper bender since Los Angeles…” Ringo pouted, “John’s been ‘aving to stay in nursing that one bottle of Scotch he refuses to share…There’s no fun really to be had while we’re stuck in ‘ere…It’s no wonder we’re all a bloody mess. Might do us some good, y’know.”

Paul smirked. Good ol’ Ringo, always putting things into perspective. “We’ll see how the others are feeling on the subject and take it from there.”

Perhaps a good ol’ fashioned bender would do them some good, even if it meant potentially dealing with and avoiding the star struck. Paul in particular was at loose ends with himself; unraveling from the seams it felt like. A right bothered mess he was turning into. His ragged thoughts, for some reason, had been trailing off to John all day; capitalizing more and more on the idea that something about him was very wrong. And to make matters worse, the reasoning behind such sentiment wasn’t entirely clear. He could only hope he was over thinking things as usual. He hated bloody feeling the way he did, right then.


	5. I'm Only Sleeping

The gentle, yet unexpected touch to the side of his face pulled him into an altered state of awareness; and John forced his eyes open, his unfocused gaze falling on a blurred figure of some sort positioned by his bedside. A woman…at least what he thought was a woman, peered back at him harboring a faint shadow of a smile just visible through the hazy fog that continued to pollute his mind. Instinctively, John fought back an urge to return the smile as there was something oddly familiar enough about it to provoke a sense of wonder, awe almost. The same, however, could not be said about the rest of her…what he could make out of her, anyway. Was it Cyn? He glanced to the woman’s shadowed face, realizing he couldn’t tell. Other than that smile, he couldn’t really make heads or tails of his intruder. It didn’t really look like Cyn, anyway and surely it wasn’t Mimi. Who was it then? A devious fan? A deranged lover? Nothing rang a bell. As far as he was concerned, it was a stranger that stood before him in his very room. A stranger…with unknown motives…

Reality dawned on him in the form of a sudden chill and wonderment shifted to something of near fear in realization that whoever this woman was, she was intruding. Trespassing through his room as if she believed she’d had every right to be there. Or was he the one trespassing? John frowned as the conclusion that he truly had no idea what the impending situation was, asserted itself. He felt weirdly out of it. More so than he remembered…and he was bloody freezing. Where the fuck was he, anyhow? This wasn’t the same place he had settled for a kip…was it?

Keeping the woman within visual range, John shifted his annoyingly tired gaze about, coming to terms that not only did he not know what his current situation was, but he had no bloody clue where he was either. The room, like the strange woman’s smile, held something of familiarity to him, but…it wasn’t enough to trigger an actually memory. Fuck, was this the result of one of his drunken adventures? The nag of a headache that gripped his entire head seemed to tell him it was but he couldn’t quite remember having been drunk in the first place…or even having a drink recently for that matter. Was he drugged? Had he been drugged? Was that why he felt so bloody well out of it? What the fuck was happening?

The woman drew closer as if sensing his discomfort and proceeded to stroke the top of his head, pushing his strangely wet hair from his burning eyes. John bristled involuntarily and pulled away, shooting her a glare despite the heavy ache the action brought to his face. The constant ache that claimed his body …the unruly dizziness …the inability to properly gain his bearings… It was all such a rude awakening. John found himself closing his eyes against it, momentarily shutting it all out before abruptly forcing himself to deal with it. “Who are ye’ and where the ‘ell am I?” he demanded with a cold bluntness, he’d almost forgotten himself to be capable of.

The strange bird drew back as if from surprise and shook her head slowly, the smile still annoyingly planted on her face. ‘What is it about that smile?’ John wondered vaguely, though the answer never really came to him. Time to ponder the situation was limited as the subject of his muse approached him once again and suddenly without warning, took a seat beside him on his bed, her frame barely indenting the mattress. “Look into my eyes, Johnny,” she whispered, “Really look into them.”  
John rolled his eyes. Great. Whoever this person was, she knew his name…not that it wasn’t obvious he was John Lennon…one of the Beatles. As the blurred brown orbs shifted closer, John found he could hardly glance away as if he were merely under hypnosis. All at once, a brief wind strong enough to whip his hair about washed over him and he found himself sinking into darkness; all the while, wondering vaguely what was happening. Breathe…a distant voice commanded. Somehow John felt obligated to obey it.

Taking in a deep breath, he was plunged suddenly into and engulfed within an array of early childhood memories. He became vaguely aware of a variety of mixed emotions as his childhood seemed to pan out, unfolding before his very eyes. There were mixed feelings as fleeting images of his mother hugging him, holding him, loving him flowed endlessly like a never ending train through his exhausted mind. The way she laughed, the way she talked, the way she’d smile when he… Smile…Wait a bloody tick. The images came to a fading halt as a growing realization dawned on him. This woman standing before him was his mum…his dead beloved mother; the one Julia Lennon that had given birth to him twenty-three years ago.

Blinking back emotion-induced tears, he gazed at her finally. She sat there patiently, smiling softly, expectantly, and looking younger than he had ever remembered her looking. “Mum?” he croaked, his voice quavering ever so slightly. He grimaced painfully, realizing he sounded a bit like a little boy; unsure of himself in a way he wasn’t sure he had ever sounded.

“I knew you could figure it out, Johnny-darling,” his mother responded, smiling warmly, her eyes full of love, “You were always a smart lad, witty in every way and just a bit quicker on the uptake than both your sisters combined. Oh, I’ve missed you so much…all of you!”

Completely lost for words, John just stared at her, his eyes wide. He could feel a small tear careening in a slight zigzag motion down his cheek but he refused to acknowledge it. None of this made sense. His mother had died when he was seventeen…and that was years after she had first abandoned him when he was a mere tot to start another family of her own. He had just allowed himself to finally get close to her again; just begun to make up for the lost years…when she’d been brutally murdered at the hands of a stupid, idiotic drunken sod of a policeman who had struck her with his car. How was she sitting here before him so nonchalantly as though no such thing had ever taken place…? How could she…? John frowned unable to get his dizzy mind to coherently grasp the unfolding situation.

“Please tell me my dear big sister has been taking care of you!” his mother gushed suddenly, bringing him out from his dark thoughts, “She ‘as, ‘asn’t she?”  
Wouldn’t ye’ like to know? John fought back the sudden urge to fire those very words in her direction.

“She’s a bit of a prude though if I do recall so correctly,” his mother went on in the absence of his response, “Always ‘as been, y’know,” She broke suddenly into a reminiscent smile and her brown eyes took on a far-off look, “I remember when we were mere children. She once-”

John shook his head impatiently, in no mood for his mother’s lighthearted chatter, though in truth, it was all he’d craved in years past. He felt like absolute crap and he was a bit pissed for reasons he couldn’t quite come to terms with. “All of a sudden, y’care about me wellbeing?” he interrupted bitterness permeating his voice, “Y’didn’t seem to care when y’left me with me aunt so you could get on with yer life and start a whole ‘nother family…” John was aware that whatever had happened between he and his mother had long since been resolved on a physical level but he just couldn’t get over the emotional aspect or the unfairness of it all. Too many years had gone by without the loving touch he had yearned for from her. The minute he gets her back in his life, she goes and dies. ‘When’s my happy ending?’ he had wondered selfishly for years in the aftermath. John knew it was an irrationally cold, self-centered spin to put on such an impromptu occurrence but he was bloody miserable…and truth be told, he missed his mum something terrible. And his uncle, and Stu, and anyone else who had ever dared to leave him. Bloody hell, he even found himself missing his evasive father on occasion during those days when he was feeling particularly vulnerable. Christ. Didn’t people ever stop to think of how their loved ones would take it before they disappeared or allowed themselves into death’s capricious grip? Surely they didn’t…

“I’ve always cared, love,” his mother told him bringing his gaze to her once again. She eyed him suddenly frowning in immediate concern, “What’s the matter with ye’? Ye’ look flushed…a bit ill, really…Aren’t ye’ feeling well?”

“Go away…Please…” John muttered petulantly, “Y’will, anyway. Ye’ always do…”

She reached out, touching his cheek ever so slightly, “You ‘ave a fever, darling,” she informed him, “You should really be taking better care of yourself!”

“GO AWAY!” John shouted, all his frustrations breaking forth in the simple expression. ‘No wait… don’t go… Don’t ever leave me… not again… not a third time! I couldn’t take it…’ His heart failed to verbalize all of this in time. Just as suddenly as the preceding words had violently escaped him, his surroundings melted away to reveal that of a hotel bedroom environment. “Mum…wait!” he panted into the empty room. Gasping and wheezing, he forcefully eased himself up into the sitting position, grimacing all the while as dark spots clouded his vision while his head pounded fiercely. A dream…his mind told him painfully…It was all a dream. Yer mum wasn’t here…she was never here…

As painful as the realization was, John found that was the least of his worries as the fact he couldn’t breathe reared its ugly head. Struggling to tear his blankets away; he glanced frantically about the room, repetitive wheezes forcing their way out of his constricting, aching chest. Spotting his suitcase in a near corner, he stumbled out of bed and staggered towards it, pausing to close his eyes as his head swam along with the forced action.

Listing slightly on his feet, he dropped down beside the square frame of luggage and managed to tear into it with strangely stiff fingers that seemed almost incompetent in working right. The inhaler was tucked away inside a pocket beneath the canvas flap that made up the suitcase cover, courtesy of his aunt, in case of emergency. Before leaving on tour, she had insisted he leave it there despite his original protests that he hadn’t had an asthma attack in years. He had seen it as a bit of a hindrance, a drag really, to have to carry the infernal thing about at all times and had even thought of his aunt as being unbearably overprotective in regards to it. But now as he numbly positioned the strangely shaped object into his mouth, he found his gratefulness ruled out everything and anything.

The first spray loosened up his throat only slightly, while the second spray helped speed up the process; releasing the suffocating vice that had gripped his lungs and chest area. After a third spray, the ache lifted entirely from his chest and he collapsed wearily against the nearest wall, eternal exhaustion brutally taking over where his asthma attack had roughly left him. ‘Yer mum wasn’t here…she was never here…’ his mind whispered as if to set his pounding heart at ease. It didn’t help…he was near tears. He was sweating right fierce too; his damp hair clinging thickly to his forehead, some of it, falling into his eyes like sharp spears. His head, to his increasing annoyance, continued to throb unremittingly and on top of that, he was almost sure that his throat was beginning to ache or maybe it was the lump of sorrow that had eased its way into it. Attempting weakly to swallow it back; he shuddered involuntarily as a resulting shaky gasp escaped him. He held his breath immediately in growing fear the action would repeat itself and he’d simply breakdown into a fit of heaving tears. Right certain, Paul would find him then… He always did…and truthfully, that was the last thing he wanted or even needed.

A chill passed through him and he frowned, realizing he still couldn’t seem to get warm despite the fact that he was sweating and worked up into a tizzy. Grimacing weakly at the state he was in, he placed a hand beneath his bangs and irritably pushed his hair out of his face, shivering all the while at another chill that seemed to nip simultaneously at his spine. He felt lightheaded…nauseous even like he’d spent hours on one of those circus rides as he’d used to do as a little boy. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think that maybe was suffering the grips of a particularly bad hangover, only…he hadn’t touched a single drink last night. He hoped with a passion that neither Paul nor anyone else would dare walk in on him now. Not when he looked every bit like the crap he felt like. He wanted to sleep more than ever and maybe take another aspirin to boot. Needless to say, he didn’t feel well and to say that he felt like shit would be putting it mildly.

Closing his eyes, John allowed himself to slip into temporary bliss before the concept of time suddenly dawned on him, bringing with it, an unwanted reality check and a realization that he was running on borrowed time. Forcing his aching eyes to reopen again, he shifted them anxiously towards the bedside clock, the numbers all but easing his exhaustion-ravaged mind. He needed to get his lazy arse in the shower now or both Eppy and Mal would have his head! More importantly, he needed to get his betraying body under control. The chills; still mercifully mild in nature, were starting to come on a bit persistently now, and that coupled with the giant allover ache that plagued him was starting to bring to his attention that he may actually be coming down with a fever of some sort. Great. Of all the times for such bloody inconvenience. Whatever he was catching, he needed to slow the infective process down somehow…just enough to get through the next couple of days at least…


	6. I Want to Tell You

Neither Paul nor Ringo were aware of how long they’d been at work, but Epstein’s sudden appearance at the door of the suite signaled that they’d better get a move on; grab something to eat, shower, whatever it took, and be ready in three hours flat. Leaving the hotel was only part of the ordeal. Following that milestone, they had to reach their destination safely with still enough time to get into their stage clothes, as well as get their hair and makeup done, come to terms with a list of songs for performing, and get on stage and give it their all while millions of fans screamed for them. It was a concept un-foreign to them by this point, but it didn’t make things any less nerve-wracking for any of them.

Paul felt especially on edge as he discussed with Eppy just what was expected prior to all the excitement. By the sounds of it, leaving the hotel just to get to the limo was destined to be a trick in and of itself. According to Mal, American fans were like animals and even the press, whom they had a scheduled conference with after the show, proved to be just as rambunctious. Apparently, an incident had happened earlier with John, leading to Mal having to come to his rescue. Paul frowned as Eppy revealed the information, stating something about how Mal had noticed, following the situation, that John seemed a bit ill. “…Is he all right?” Eppy finished presently, stepping past Paul into the suite.

“I think so… though he is a bit below par,” Paul responded, his tone portraying slight reluctance as he gazed into Eppy’s concerned brown eyes, “‘E’s settled down fer a kip at the moment. Been dealing with a right fierce pounder of a headache all day that ‘e ‘asn’t been able to shake, which I believe is why ‘e’s been a bit of a git all day.”

“A git would be putting it mildly,” Eppy muttered, though not with any real anger. He’d always possessed a bit of a soft spot for John that may or may not border infatuation and momentarily; any anger he might have had towards the musician, was outweighed by concern. “Where are Ringo and George?” he asked rather suddenly as if to force his mind off of John for the time being.

To Eppy’s dismay, there was already quite a bit of talk going around in regards to his developing feelings towards John Lennon. John knew it, the band knew it, and none of them had the obligation to deny it, knowing Eppy’s obvious sexual preferences. And though the man was arse over elbows for John, he didn’t want the others to think for a minute that he didn’t care about the rest of them. That wouldn’t be further from the truth. Truthfully, he cherished all of them on friendship levels…even John, who only seemed to have an eye for girls. He had no choice but to love John from afar, while brutally and painfully knowing that John could never really love him back.

“George should be catching a bit of a kip as well,” Paul responded with hesitant uncertainty, “and Ringo should be showering if he knows what’s good fer ‘im.” Eppy frowned, “I’ve been wondering, as well, about George. How’s he been feeling? He seemed a bit knackered to me today…”

“Still getting over his bout with the lurgy,” Paul revealed offhandedly, “‘He’s fine though. Just a bit jetlagged ‘e told me.”

Eppy nodded, taking in Paul’s words with great consideration, “Good. I would hate for him to fall ill again.” He grinned finally; impressed with the tight ship that Paul seemed to be running. “Atta boy, Macca!” he exclaimed appreciatively in his usual jovial manner, “Sounds like you’ve got everything under control as expected.” He patted him affectionately on the shoulder, “Tonight, it’ll all pay off, you’ll see!”

Paul opened his mouth to respond but his stomach beat him to the punch as it chose that very moment to plaintively announce its growing hunger. Grinning sheepishly, he patted his abdomen in a soothing manner and met Eppy’s amused gaze with an awkward chuckle. “Mal didn’t ‘appen to go shopping by any chance did ‘e, Eppy?” he asked hopefully.

“He should be along any moment with groceries,” Eppy stated, sporting a grin at Paul’s expense, “I believe he might ‘ave ordered room service for the lot of ye’ as well, though what exactly, I’m not sure.”

Paul was practically salivating at just the mere mention of food. At this point, he realized he couldn’t care less what Mal had chosen to order for them. He’d eat a live rhinoceros if one just so happened to waltz into their suite; he was that hungry. Paul grinned. Perhaps this was what it felt like to be George a full twenty-four hours a day. In the many years that he’d known him, he’d quickly found that the guitarist was always hungry and always searching for grub and any given opportunities to fill his belly. As far as Paul knew, this had always been the case and extended even as far back as to when they had been mere school chums. Over time, it had become quite foreseeable to the Beatles that the day that George didn’t persistently seek out edible comfort would be the day he was most likely on his deathbed. They would probably need to check him into the intensive care unit if such a thing were to occur.

“What’s got ye’ smiling, Paul?” Eppy suddenly asked, his confusion-riddled tone drawing the bassist out from his amusing reverie.

Paul’s grin continued to widen in spite of Eppy’s growing curiosity. “Just thinking, I s’ppose,” he responded. He allowed his grin to fade before continuing, “I hope whatever it is that Mal has decided to order is enough for all of us. There’s no telling what’ll ‘appen the minute Harrison’s stomach gets involved.”

Eppy’s resulting laugh filled the room, “I’m right certain Mal has that covered, Paul,” he assured him, “We’re all vividly aware of George’s abundant appetite whether we want to be or not.” Grinning widely, he rubbed Paul’s arm in a warm and friendly manner before starting for the suite’s exit. He paused just outside the doorway and resting a hand on the door handle, turned back to face Paul, a newly concerned look plaguing his features. “When ye’ get the chance, Paul, tell John I wish to speak with him in the limo,” he insisted seriously.

Paul nodded, knowing exactly what Eppy was getting at. He could only hope John would be feeling better by then. Now that their managers were caught up, if he came off acting remotely like he wasn’t right, it wouldn’t go unnoticed or unaddressed. Paul sighed heavily, rubbing a bit at his temples. With all that was going on, he was starting to get a bit of a headache himself. Hopefully Lennon hadn’t hogged all the aspirin.


	7. Don't Bother Me

A rather strange array of randomly placed chords struck George’s ears as he emerged fully-showered from his bedroom. Wondering whom and where they originated from, he crept, unseen, into the living room area in search of its source. He was surprised to find John, also fully-showered; seated at the kitchen table, his guitar positioned comfortably within his lap, his fingers in strumming position.

‘ _Good he’s up_. _He must be feeling better, then_ …’ George readily presumed inwardly as he regarded his friend with growing interest. John hadn’t sensed his presence. He was in another world it seemed, his shadowed face tilted slightly away. His hair, still damp, fell into his eyes as he stared off into nothingness. ‘ _…or at least he should be_ …’ George frowned as he took in what he could see of John’s face. He was still dreadfully pale it seemed. His entire form oddly subdued in a non-Lennon-like manner. Maybe he was still waking up.

John’s face remained partially hidden as he struck another series of unfamiliar chords, this group of notes lilting perfectly as they resonated throughout the hotel suite, absorbing into the surrounding walls. ‘ _Seems to be working on a song of some sort_ ,’ George mused, his curiosity piquing his interest as his gaze shifted to the guitar. As if right on cue, John broke into song, his voice soft and oddly rough as his words carried above the haunting melody of his guitar.

“Half of what I say is meaningless…

…But I say it just to reach you Juliaaa…”

 

The words trailed off into lasting oblivion as John roughly proceeded to hum the unformulated lyrics he had yet to bring life to. Engulfed in augmented captivation, George’s eyes widened in reaction to the way the lyrics and the notes had flowed perfectly together. _Julia_ … as in Julia _Lennon_? Had he come across John writing a song about his mother? If that wasn’t raw form, he didn’t know what was. Fascination-inspired awe ruling his features, he crept slightly closer all the while struggling still to gain a curiosity-inspired glance to John’s face. Success played off but George’s sense of amazement was resultantly shattered at the presence of something peculiarly wet and reflective layering the visible side of his friend’s abnormally ashen face. ‘ _Were those_ …?’ George swallowed hard in a growing effort to come to terms with what was unraveling before his very eyes, ‘ _Had he_ …? _Was John_ …?’ He found he couldn’t bring himself to finish the rapid-fire thoughts coming to his mind. Then it occurred to him. There was nothing _to_ be said. _John Lennon_ was _crying…here in the open._ A resulting feeling of sympathy crept into George’s soul subsequently weighing on his heart as he furtively looked on. Suddenly, he felt as though he was intruding. As though he shouldn’t be there. As if standing there watching John in so raw a form was not only forbidden but…cruel. Even as this dawned on him, he couldn’t yet bring himself to slip away unnoticed. It was as though something was holding his feet in place.

More haunting chords filled the room, the order of them strikingly beautiful as they rose and fell, but John was growing increasingly restless and alarmingly agitated; his demeanor changing at a rapid, disquieting pace. He looked as though he was losing focus, becoming unexpectedly sidetracked by something not entirely obvious. His eyes, half-lidded in a lazy manner, had closed after a while and his fingers had taken on a slight but unnerving tremor as he gingerly strummed his guitar. Getting a closer look, George noted that it wasn’t just his fingers that shook but his whole body in fact trembled in a barely visible manner that looked almost incontrollable. Then it dawned on him. John was shivering. Whether it was from a struggle to keep his emotions in check or from simply being cold, however, wasn’t entirely clear.

Before George could further assess the situation, John let out a frazzled groan and without so much a warning, hastily lifted the guitar strap over his head before setting the instrument down beside him in an air of pronounced frustration. By the way that he consequently grimaced and scrubbed at his forehead, it was apparent his stubborn headache still hadn’t left him. Nonetheless, he was upset and disgruntled and an upset and disgruntled John wasn’t normally a good thing for those around him.

George’s frown continued to deepen in empathy for the older guitarist but he proceeded to turn away forgetting in all his distress that he was supposed to be incognito. His actions unintentionally caught John’s eye who in turn subsequently called him back. Startled, George froze and after mentally preparing himself, turned to face what he was expecting to be John’s wrath.

As he met John’s gaze, however, he was shocked to find that there were no traces of anger present, just overall exhaustion as he regarded him with what appeared to be mild interest. “How long ‘ave you been standing there?” he asked with neutral weariness.

“Not long,” George responded, struggling to remain casual in the face of his spiraling nerves. Here it comes, he thought, John would certainly let him have it now for snooping.

He was again surprised as John gave a slight impartial nod in his direction before turning away in submissive disinterest. He wiped at his eyes a bit and sniffled, his worn out gaze finding a nearby window which he proceeded to stare out of, seemingly drained of any further conversation.

George frowned. John still seemed bloody exhausted as if sleep still hadn’t bothered to show itself to him. George found that to be strange. He, himself, had had no problem falling asleep. In fact, the moment his head had hit the pillow, he’d been out. But then again, so had John, or so Paul had earlier reported. Looking at John now, such a thing didn’t seem to be the case. The rhythm guitarist currently looked as though he’d seen better days and not just on an emotional level either. He looked right awful. Worse even than when he’d last seen him. _Hadn’t_ he slept any?

“Quit staring…” John mumbled; his voice hoarse and oddly low.

George turned to him in surprise. John was looking at him now, a decidedly irritated look dominating his face. Before George could stop himself, however, the resulting words were already tumbling from his mouth. “Y’look like crap, John…” he blurted out.

John blinked a bit, seemingly stunned, before responding, “Well, yer not exactly Elvis yerself, _Harrison_ so don’t push yer luck…” was his sardonic reply.

George shook his head, “I meant y’look like shit…er…y’look right ill…” Catching the resulting fiery look in John’s eyes, he faltered, bringing his less than graceful redemption to an end. He suddenly eased into a grin sheepish in nature, “Never mind?”

“Just shurrup would ye’? I know what I bloody look like!” John grumbled, “I bloody feel like crap so why wouldn’t I look it…” He paused, frowning, “Didn’t exactly have a great kip either…” he admitted, his voice trailing off.

“Too much noise?”

John looked away again, his exhausted gaze falling down to the wooden surface of the table, “Y’could say that.”

George frowned and tried again, “How’s yer head, then?”

“I’d be better off stabbed in me ear…” John muttered, his morose words lacking emotion as he turned his attention back to the window.

George arched an eyebrow with a hint of amusement. Typical John; always so wonderfully descriptive. “That bad?” he asked as he pulled back a chair and joined his mate at the table.

John shrugged; the action barely perceptible in nature.

George sighed deciding right then that maybe a change of subject was in order. His gaze moved impatiently towards the refrigerator, “What’s a bloke gotta do to get some food around ‘ere?” he mused aloud.

“Wait…like everyone else,” John muttered without looking at him.

George pouted, “But I’m hungry _now_ , y’know…”

“When aren’t ye’?”

George brought his attention back to John, “Well aren’t you? Y’left ‘alf yer breakfast behind this morning. A right waste if ye’ ask me. If you ‘adn’t let it go soggy, I would’ve eaten it meself!”

John met him with a haggard glare, “ _Yer_ not gonna start on me now, are ye’? It can’t be helped at this point, so y’might as well come off it. I wasn’t hungry.”

George smirked in the face of John’s obvious annoyance, “Yer a barrel of sunshine this afternoon!” he chirped. He tapped a finger distractedly on the table and allowed his eyes to wander towards the suite’s exit, “I wonder if the neighbors ‘ave any food to spare,” he wondered aloud.

“Could ye’ stop with the bloody food already?”

George’s face fell as a bit of concern surfaced within him, “Are ye’ still not hungry, John?” he asked turning back to him, eyebrow arched as though the mere idea was absurd. Truthfully, in George’s opinion, it was. Food was a basic means of survival.

John coughed and cleared his throat, “Not everyone’s a bottomless pit like you,” he responded hoarsely.

George frowned, “Well, no, but you’ve barely eaten a meal yet today!” his eyes narrowed in suspicion, “What’s the matter with ye’, anyhow?”

John heaved a sigh, “Nothing. Just stop talking, would ye’? In case ye’ ‘aven’t realized, I’m not in the mood. Me ‘ead feels like one of those ticking time bombs…”

George’s frown deepened. Lennon was clearly in another one of his moods. That only meant one thing. Tread lightly. However, he just couldn’t get over how horrible his friend was looking. He looked knackered beyond belief, off-color, bloody lousy. The bags beneath his eyes seemed to stretch for miles as if merely under the influence of gravity. Truthfully, he looked as though the only thing keeping his head from permanently meeting the table was the hand he currently supported it with. It was a bit unnerving, really. Sleep deprivation looked to be the least of the musician’s concerns at this point.

“I still think y’should let a doctor look at ye’,” George pitched with a bit of concern, “It might do ye’ some good, y’know. He might ‘ave something fer that ‘eadache. If it ‘asn’t gone away on its own by now, it might not. Especially when ye’ mix in millions of screaming birds.”

“Dr. George Harrison…” John mused with mild interest, his eyes taking on a distant look, “Doesn’t quite ‘ave the ring to it, I thought it would…” He coughed again and grimaced, bringing a comforting hand to his chest.

George’s eyes narrowed suddenly in utter confusion, “What are ye’ on about, John?”

John shook his head absently, turning his gaze back towards the window, “Why does everyone seem to think they know what’s best fer me? Last I checked, I was granted with a brain to make me own choices…me own…” he paused, allowing his eyes to close momentarily in a forced effort to think, “What’s that word I’m looking for…?”

“That’s not the point, Lennon,” George interrupted, waving away the latter of his band mate’s trivial words with a sigh, “The point is, yer not doing a very good job looking after yerself. I’m not sure if you’ve ever been aware but you do ‘ave limits, y’know.”

John remained detached from his surroundings, his gaze permanently fixated out the window in a manner of indifference. “Well, I hate to break it to ye’, Miss America but y’don’t know everything now, d’ye?” he objected mockingly, his tone picking up in the way of frazzled exhaustion, what it lacked in intended irritation.

George sighed; choosing from known experience to ignore the brunt of John’s fighting words. The musician was clearly miserable, and whenever he was in such a state, he’d sometimes inadvertently do anything to bring others to his level as well. The band had gotten used to overlooking it and avoiding the subtle traps he set. “I never said that I did,” he responded quietly after a while, “Christ, y’don’t ‘ave to be such a git about it.”

With another cough, John folded his arms over the table top and laid his head down into them, wincing slightly at his chosen actions. An obvious shiver ran through him right then and he grimaced in reaction to it, “Leave me alone, then…” he murmured grumpily, “I didn’t sign up fer a bloody ‘round the clock therapist…”

George’s eyebrows knitted together as he noted the presence of familiar goose bumps his band mate had been sporting on and off all day. “You sure yer feelin’ all right?” he asked apprehensively. There really wasn’t much in the way of air-conditioning in the building at the moment; the only source of refreshment, being the occasional breeze from the open windows. The air temperature could currently rival that of what they had experienced in Florida months back…

“If I ‘ad a pound fer every time someone’s bothered to ask me that today…” John muttered flatly, his words trailing off in a negligent manner.

“Well, it’s asked fer good reason, mate.” George responded as if he was suddenly years older and wiser than John, “And judging by the way y’ keep waving us off, it’s blatant someone should. Yer not yerself today, y’know.”

“Mm…” John mumbled disinterestedly. He closed his eyes and George fell silent, debating whether or not to check him for fever. He was shivering still, the tremors taking hold of him when he least expected it, forcing him to hug himself in attempt to fight them off or make them less obvious. Though the rhythm guitarist probably thought he was, in that manipulative mind of his; he wasn’t fooling anyone. Putting all the pieces together, George was almost certain he had figured out the puzzle he’d been presented with. And if he had, then all arrows were pointing specifically at one thing. John Lennon was falling ill.

John really did look right terrible. A persistent, deep, rosy flush had spread across his cheeks and obvious pallor dominated where the hue hadn’t been able to reach. If that wasn’t a red flag of illness, he didn’t know what was.

John raised his head after a moment and turned to him, his depleted brown eyes subdued and alarmingly lifeless in nature, “Y’think Mal’s on his way back with the groceries yet?” he asked softly, “Could use a cup of tea or something to that effect…”

George sighed, “I hope so. Me stomach’s about ready to eat itself…”

John grinned wryly in spite of his obvious discomfort, “If I ‘ad a pound fer every time you’ve said that since I’ve known ye’…” He startled to chuckle but his tormented lungs still suffering from his earlier asthma attack, sent him into a heavy, sputtering coughing fit.

George watched wide-eyed as John’s entire face proceeded to redden dramatically in the midst of his distress, “Christ, ye’ all right, Johnny?” he asked slight panic emanating from his tone.

Clutching his throat, John managed a feeble nod as the self-limiting fit came to a merciful end. His entire chest area, lungs included were on fire…

George frowned, skeptically taking in the appearance of his friend’s face, heavily flushed from the bout of coughing he’d just seen himself through. “What _was_ that?” he demanded suspiciously.

Sucking in a quavering, rather wheezy breath, John managed a wearied glance in George’s direction. “Nothing…Just a stubborn tickle in me throat…” He displayed a brief lethargic, halfhearted grin, “Guess that’s what I get fer screaming at ye’ blokes all day like a sod, ‘ey?” Without waiting for a response, he cleared his throat and turned to look out the window once again, “…At least I can still sing…” he added distantly.

George continued to observe him suspiciously, his eyes narrowing in concern as John continued to rub at his throat in what seemed like an absent-minded manner. He frowned, remembering his own bout with the flu. His throat had been bothering him something terrible before he fell ill. He decided against mentioning it, however, not wanting to upset his band mate. John looked especially woozy now as though the coughing fit had successfully robbed him of whatever bit of energy he’d been able to cling to, “Ye’ want some water?” he asked instead, “I think there’s some in the fridge left fer us by the hotel staff…or maybe the tap water’s drinkable…”

Seemingly distracted by some outdoor happening, John didn’t readily respond.

“John?” George hesitantly called out, raising his voice only slightly. When the rhythm guitarist failed to even flinch, he turned his own attention towards the window to see if he could locate whatever it was that had successfully captivated his friend’s attention. Other than the usual sea of fans, he couldn’t see anything particularly out of the ordinary. From what George could see; John was just staring unnervingly into space. “John!” he repeated, louder still.

After a moment, John turned to look at him finally, a genuine look of unfocused disorientation coming into his exhausted eyes. He gave his head a slight shake as if to clear it, before managing to get a hold of his bearings, “What is it?” he demanded rather brusquely.

George frowned, completely taken aback by John’s uncharacteristically muddled mentality. “Christ, Johnny. Are ye’ _absolutely_ _sure_ yer feelin’ okay?” he demanded.

John smirked tiredly after a while in idle amusement, “For someone who’s supposedly so quiet, ye’ sure talk a lot.” He turned away just in time to avoid sneezing all over George.

George stared at him, not knowing whether to smile in amusement or display his gratitude towards not being covered in snot courtesy of the older Beatle. Before he could mentally decide, however, he’d already broken out into a resulting grin. “Gesundheit!” he stated, trying unsuccessfully not to laugh.

“S’not funny…” John mumbled, sniffling, “Just be lucky I’m not Ringo. Nothing in the suite would’ve been safe, including you.”

“S’not funny…” George echoed, with a laugh, “ _S’not_ funny… _S’not_ … _snot_ …”

“Yer a regular riot, Harrison…” John muttered with blatant displeasure before erupting violently into yet another sneeze. Breaking out into a full grimace, he groaned slightly in annoyance as a noticeable chill proceeded to grip him.

“You’ve gone and caught something ‘aven’t ye?” George accused rather suddenly, concern-inspired suspicion chasing away all traces of his grin.

John shrugged as if the revelation wasn’t all that important. “It does rather feel I’ve got a bloody cold coming on…” he admitted tiredly after a while, clearly aggravated with the inconvenience. He regarded George’s look of concern before flashing a brief sincere smile, “I’ll be all right though, really… Been through much worse in me life.”

George skeptically eyed him, “A cold is a cold, John. Either way, yer ill and this isn’t the time for that. I think I’m going to send Eppy fer a doctor.”

John’s resulting annoyance unfurled in a matter of seconds, “What is it with you people?!” he growled, “I’m bloody fine! Christ, a bloke gets a little bit knackered, feels a little bit ill and suddenly everybody’s off their bloody trolley!”

“Before my initial bout with the lurgy, I felt as though I was catching a cold,” George calmly explained his concerns.

“I don’t have the lurgy,” John muttered petulantly, dropping his volume a considerable amount, “I aven’t slept in years it seems like. I’m bloody tired and the more I let you all into me ‘ead, the more I understand why. You people are all driving me mad.”

“We’re just a bit concerned, is all,” George told him, sharply repeating his words from earlier as he dared to hold his ground, “And frankly, I believe we ‘ave every right t’be. Y’look like bleedin’ ‘ell! Ye’ ‘ave all bloody day!”

John closed his eyes, allowing a sigh to escape him. What a day this was shaping up to be. First Paul had decisively dared to blackmail and threaten him and now George was _standing_ up to him? He’d be damned if he was going to let that happen. Still, he couldn’t help feeling slightly amused despite the circumstances behind it all. Quiet or not, George certainly had a clear streak of adamancy. With a frown, John quickly found that for what seemed like the millionth time that day, he wasn’t in the mood to comment on yet another rare occurrence. He just wasn’t feeling well enough to rightly come up with all the words such an action would require… Maybe he really _was_ sick after all. Regardless, he was perfectly capable of taking care of himself. “Clear off, would ye’? M’fine.”

“So ye’ wouldn’t ‘ave a temperature, then?” George asked, his tone alarmingly taking on a conniving aspect to it.

John glared tiredly at him, “What are ye’ on about _now_ , George?”

“If ye’ were _fine_ as ye’ put it, ye’ wouldn’t ‘ave a temperature,” George explained derisively.

“I don’t!” John snapped indignantly, feeling suddenly flustered, “Bloody piss off would ye’?”

“Like a child…” George smirked with a slight hint of amusement, “Well go on then, let me ‘ave a feel if yer so sure.”

“I’ll let you ‘ave a feel all right,” John muttered, “‘Ave a feel of me foot in yer arse, y’will! I don’t have time for this rubbish.” He started to get up from the table, the attempt failing miserably as dizziness chose that very moment to grip him. Unable to properly grasp what was happening to him, he fell back into his chair; his head listing temporarily forward as everything began to take on an uneven spin. Just as suddenly as it had come on, the spinning sensation subsided and he managed to catch hold of himself, saving himself from what would otherwise have been a rude awakening in the form of an untimely acquaintance with the floor. When he managed to look up, George’s eyes were wide and his face was completely drained of color as though he’d seen a ghost. Bloody hell…of all the bloody things to be witnessed. Now George would never leave him alone. Bloody fucking hell…

“What the ‘ell was _that_ , John?” George demanded, his voice all but keeping steady in the aftermath of what he’d just perceived.

“Got up too fast…” John mumbled, “M’fine.”

“ _Fine_. Me arse yer _fine_.” George scoffed. He frowned, coming to terms with the increased flushed appearance situated in the cheeks of his band mate’s face. The rhythm guitarist certainly didn’t _look_ fine.

“I think I should know what I’m talking about, Harrison,” John snapped, successfully rising finally from his seat, “Fuck, I think I bloody like y’better when ye’ don’t ‘ave much t’say…” _George… the quiet Beatle… They might as well label Ringo the tall Beatle…or Paul the rude one. The press had no idea what they were bloody talking about_ …

Before George could respond, a series of knocks sounded at the door and both Beatles turned to look at each other with slightly piqued curiosity. “Who’s gonna get that?” John asked, his own curiosity dissolving into a condescending glare which he lethargically aimed at George.

“Well, yer feeling _so_ _wonderfully_ _fine_ , Lennon. I don’t see why _you_ can’t,” George countered slyly, returning the glare, “And yer so eagerly on yer feet already so go right ahead!” He added a smirk, sealing his statement like the cherry on top of a sundae.

John scowled at him, but said nothing as he gingerly dragged his alarmingly chilled body towards the door. Repetitive waves of pain, having been annulled in the act of sitting, were now beginning to pour from his lower back area, down to his calves to his very feet. On occasion, the annoying twinges worked its way up into his shoulders where they would then rocket down his arms in a merciless manner. He was even a bit lightheaded still, the nagging woozy sensation recently seeming to become a bit permanent in nature. Truth be told, it wasn’t helping with the nauseating aspect of things at all… Maybe they _should_ send for a doctor, he thought dejectedly as the suite’s doorway suddenly manifested in front of him.

Frowning, John wearily laid a hand on the handle and paused, leaving it there as if bracing himself for what lay in store behind it. Could be a crazed fan for all he knew. Maybe they had a knife…to put him out of his misery with… He felt bloody…awful…

“Who is it?” George asked from the kitchen table.

“If I knew that, I’d be bloody psychic…” John muttered without looking at him.

“Try the peephole,” George reminded him, offhandedly.

John blinked blearily. “The _what_?”

“The peephole,” George repeated, “Look through it. That’s what it’s there for, y’know.”

“Right…” The little hole at eyelevel that was bloody winking him in the face. How’d he miss it? Why should he want to look through the tiny thing, anyhow? It was so small…too small for his aching, gritty eyes. John shook his head slightly struggling to resist the urge to just lean his alarmingly heavy head against the door. The stubborn pain that gripped it, once soothed by the effects of a hot shower, was ever-present now, extending its reach even further in a way he hadn’t been sure was even possible. His hair hurt, his ears throbbed. He was sure that even his eyelashes ached…or were beginning to…

Another series of knocks sounded, this time followed by a muffled cry through the soundproof door. “F’chrissakes, open the bloody door!”

At that point, John didn’t need a visual. “It’s Mal,” he reported without enthusiasm.

George grinned, “That means he’s arrived with our grub!” he announced, a little too excitedly for John’s liking.

John finally moved to open the door and Mal practically fell into the room, his arms burdened by groceries, “Here, take this,” he ordered exasperatedly, shoving a bag at John. Taken by surprise, John weakly stumbled back beneath the sudden weight added to him before managing to steady himself as his world startlingly took on an aberrant spin, “Christ, how’d ye’ even get these ‘ere all at once?” he murmured with faint surprise after his poise finally fell into place.

“I had to take multiple trips,” Mal explained, wearily. He started towards the kitchen counter with John trailing behind, “This should last us well into New Jersey.”

“Whadidye’ buy?” George asked; his face lit up like a child’s on Christmas morning.

Setting a bag on the counter, John shot him a frazzled glare, “How about ye’ get off yer arse and bloody give us a hand, ye’ lazy sod?” he snapped.

“Don’t worry about it, John,” Mal sighed, “There’s only one more bag in the hall. I’ll get it.”

George grinned gratefully and returned John’s glare with a smug look.

“Unbelievable…” John muttered. He wasn’t in the mood to fight though. His dizziness had increased with a vengeance and he was pretty sure he was starting to have a bit of trouble catching his breath. Without really thinking, he leaned forward against the counter and dropped his head into his hands in a concealed struggle to control his breathing. He wasn’t feeling well… really wasn’t feeling well at all…

“I’m going to see what we ‘ave,” George announced somewhere in the background. John had to lift his head to see if he was still right beside him as he had been. He sounded suddenly so distant. So far away… There was a sudden crinkling of paper bags and before John could come to terms with what was happening, the younger guitarist was waist deep in their groceries, quickly rifling through items.

His hampered mind unable to fully process the situation, John turned away, his grainy, unfocused eyes falling on Mal who was making his way slowly towards them, one more bag in his arms. As he approached, he beamed an amused smile in George’s direction. “You can always tell when ‘e’s feeling better,” he commented with a laugh, “Food becomes his number one priority all over again.”

“It never stopped being…” John muttered with ample indifference. His own voice sounded distant to him…Frighteningly distant…with a hint of an echo of some sort…

Mal chuckled, failing to notice the younger man’s distress, “Well, just wait till ye’ boys learn of what I’ve ordered ye’ for room service!”

The crinkling of bags stopped abruptly and George glanced to Mal with a frenzied look of interest claiming him, “What?” he asked, his word barely audible though he was right beside John.

Mal murmured something of a reply and George reacted in a way that seemed almost too animated for John’s deteriorating mindset. He turned away, struggling not to sway beneath the weight of his own body and closed his eyes. He felt horribly sick… Why couldn’t he just make it all go away?

“John? John! Ye’ all right?” Mal was suddenly right beside him, gazing at him with obvious worry. John tried to grin at him, but the action didn’t readily make it to his face. “Did ye’ buy tea?” he asked woozily, unaware that the question was insignificant to what Mal was observing.

Mal frowned at him suddenly, infinite amounts of concern radiating out from the simple gesture, “You all right, Johnny?” he repeated, sharply.

“…Yeah…I think,” John hesitated a bit before answering. _Wasn’t_ he? _Was_ he? Why was he _slurring_? _Was_ he slurring?

“I don’t think you are. How’s that headache of yers? Still there?”

John nodded tiredly, his eyes falling closed once again as the subtle action consequently jumbled his brain.

Mal’s frown deepened, “I can tell…You look right knackered, as well. Ye’ sure yer feeling all right?”

“Maybe not…” A hard shiver took that very moment to course through John’s aching body and Mal’s frown continued to deepen into a grimace as he eyed him. Without a word, he reached up a hand and placed it to John’s forehead leaving it there a few seconds before John hastily pulled away.

“You’re very warm, hot even,” Mal sighed heavily. He’d been afraid of this. He pointed to the kitchen table, “Go ‘ave a seat over there before ye’ fall down.”

“I’m fine…” John stubbornly started to argue. His words felt strangely ineffective. He could barely hear them…

“NOW!” Mal growled, raising his voice several octaves at once.

With a defeated sigh, John saw he had no choice but to obey. An angry Mal wasn’t one to mess with…However, the kitchen table looked so far away. Too far away. Reluctantly, he took one step towards it, the simple action proving to be near impossible. His entire body felt weighed down…and he couldn’t really focus.

He vaguely saw as Mal turned to George who had paused mid-grocery-investigation to look on at the happenings unraveling before him. “Put away the perishable items if ye’ will, Geo,” he ordered, “I’m afraid I’m sending Eppy fer a doctor.”

“Look out!” George suddenly cried out, “Johnny’s gonna faint!”

Before John could properly grasp the meaning of the situation, his world faded into nothingness…

 


	8. I Should Have Known Better

“John…John…” the voice was faint at first…but loud enough to be understood. John shook his head reactively before forcing his eyes open, his tired gaze greeting Mal and George’s equally worried eyes. Everything fucking ached…

“Thank goodness!” Mal breathed in relief, “How’re you feeling? Are ye’ dizzy? How many fingers am I holding up?”

John looked away disregarding the onslaught of questions altogether, coming to the conclusion that he was weirdly on the floor…of the kitchen of all places. “What ‘appened? Why am I on the floor?” he asked, feeling vaguely confused and disoriented.

Mal frowned, “Ye’ fainted, John. Don’t you remember?”

John shifted his tired gaze back to Mal, a puzzled look coming into his eyes, “Yer having me on!” he argued disbelievingly.

“I wish ‘e was,” George interjected solemnly. Once again, he was pale, as if coming off a fright of some sort, “Ye’ gave us quite the scare, Johnny! Cor blimey!”

John frowned staring up at him a moment more before glancing tiredly away. So it was true. He’d fainted. Bloody fucking hell. And now everyone was just going to stand over him and gape like he was some kind of undiscovered specimen. He felt suddenly impatient and annoyed despite the nagging fact that he was still feeling absolutely dreadful. “Well I’m conscious now,” he snapped with uncontrolled irritably, “Help me up, would ye’?”

“Yer absolutely sure yer all right? Mal demanded sternly, “No dizziness or faintness?”

John weakly shook his head, “No, ‘m’fine…”

Mal remained doubtful. John hadn’t entirely been honest in regards to his rapidly declining health when it mattered most. Why should he take his word for it now? “Why didn’t you say you weren’t feeling well?” he demanded sharply.

John shrugged. “I didn’t think--”

“That’s right. Y’didn’t think!” Mal cut him off, “Christ, John! Don’t you realize how much worse this could have panned out fer you? Had you not blatantly fainted, we would’ve remained oblivious to how poorly ye’ were feeling and who knows what could’ve happened from then on!!”

“Yer overreacting…” John responded flippantly.

“ _Overreacting_ …” Mal echoed mockingly, “When will ye’ bloody learn?” Heaving a sigh, he placed a hand to John’s forehead, frowning again at the instant heat that radiated from it. He sighed in relief, nonetheless, coming to terms that the rhythm guitarist didn’t seem any hotter than he’d felt last. “No matter…” he sighed compromisingly after a while, “The doctor will be here to ‘ave a look at ye’. He can determine yer overall health himself.”

Annoyed with the slow pace of things, John started to ease himself off the floor himself, only to be hastily stopped by the manager. “Blimey, relax, will ye’, Lennon?” he commanded strictly, “Ye’ have a fever, y’know. What just happened could easily happen again!!”

“Then I’ll risk it. I don’t plan on lying ‘ere fer the rest of me life, y’know!” John countered petulantly.

George glanced to Mal who nodded, and the two of them helped John up to his feet and over to the nearby kitchen table where he was seated. John instantly laid his head down upon the table top clearly exhausted with the effort and closed his eyes. He opened them again as something was placed in front of him and he saw that it was a freshly refrigerated bottle of water courtesy of George. “Drink up,” George advised him, “Might help ye’ feel a bit better.”

John suspiciously eyed the bottle and its contents, “That’s not from the tap is it?” he asked warily.

“It wouldn’t be in a bottle if it was,” George responded, taking a seat beside him, “The hotel staff left those fer us upon arrival. Nice gesture if ye’ ask me.”

John nodded tiredly and proceeded to twist the cap off, “Had some tap water back in Colorado, I think…” he revealed indolently, “Felt rather off fer the rest of the day.”

George smirked wryly, “Well, ye’ can’t feel anymore off than yer feeling now, I’m afraid,” he responded in a lighthearted attempt at a quip, “How’re ye’ feeling, anyhow?”

“Like shit…” was John’s tired response. He took a small sip from the water bottle and swallowed carefully as though the action was rough on his throat.

Both Mal and George looked on with twin frowns, their worry only increasing.

By the time Ringo and Paul joined them; Mal was seated at the kitchen table alongside George and a rather sleepy John. The first thing both imposing Beatles noticed was the obvious worsening condition of John since they’d seen him last. His face, still dreadfully pale from his ongoing sleep deprivation, had taken on an all but subtle feverish flush that they were certain could rival that of a significant sunburn His head was currently resting on the kitchen table and it seemed he could barely keep his eyes open even long enough to pretend he felt all right.

“What’s going on?” Ringo was the first to ask, glancing from John to Mal to George and back. He felt apprehensive as if he’d just missed something big and judging by the worry in George’s eyes, he knew that was the case.

“I sent Eppy for a doctor,” Mal announced anxiously, “Our boy Johnny ‘ere’s been running a bit of a temperature it seems…”

Paul perceptively arched an eyebrow in John’s direction, “Aye, so ye’ _were_ sick all along, were ye’?” he questioned with a hint of mild bitterness and obvious discontent.

John spoke without lifting his head, “Mal thinks I’m hot, y’know…” he stated with utmost cynicism, seemingly oblivious to Paul’s words, “Fucking queer…been hangin’ ‘round Eppy too much it seems…”

Paul frowned; his worried gaze focusing temporarily on John’s distantly glazed eyes before moving to Mal, “How bad is it?” he asked.

“Right significant enough that it caused him to faint,” Mal stated, grimacing with left over concern, “Thankfully, Eppy’ll be along any moment with the doctor.”

“He _fainted_?!” Paul demanded in shock.

Mal nodded solemnly, “Right here by the counter. I had looked over at him, noticing that he wasn’t looking right. After realizing that he had a fever, I looked away for a second in search of a telephone. Next thing I know, he’s bloody fainted in me arms. Lucky for ‘im I was able to catch him before he hit the floor.”

“Blimey…” Ringo sighed, displaying his own disbelief, “Let’s just hope he’s not coming down with the lurgy. Things were tough enough when George had it last.”

“Not in favor of being talked about as though I’m not ‘ere…” John grumbled suddenly, his voice worn and void of energy as he crossly reminded his band mates of his presence.

“Not in favor, ‘ey?” Paul sneered, turning suddenly to eye him in budding anger, “ _Well_ , let me include you in the conversation then, _Lennon_!! Why didn’t y’bloody tell me you were feeling so bad?”

 _‘Let’s not start this again_ …’ John thought, with mild annoyance, ‘ _Why must they all bloody overreact_?’ Despite his rapidly flaring aggravation in regards to everyone and everything, he managed an evanescent grin in response to Paul’s obvious anger. “I’m not so bad, really,” he muttered nonchalantly, trying his best to uphold a casual facade, “S’not me fault everybody’s got nothing better to do than go right barmy over me…” He paused suddenly, narrowing his eyes on George, “S’not me fault Harri can’t keep ‘is bloody germs to ‘imself neither…Bet he got me sick, ‘e did! Waited till I was asleep one rare night, snuck in me room and--”

“Shut yer gob, will ye’?” Paul told him, still upset with him for lying to him in the first place, “It’s not George’s fault anymore than it’s yers! Yer gonna use up all the remaining energy y’have left, ye’ will, carrying on the way you are!”

John pouted petulantly, “Don’t yell at me, y’git…” he muttered, “Can’t y’see I’m sick? I didn’t ask f’this, y’know…”

“Yes, we know, love,” Ringo sighed sympathetically.

John grinned suddenly, “ _Love_ ,” he echoed mockingly, “Queers, the whole lotta ye’.” He closed his eyes right then and was asleep in a matter of minutes.

 


	9. All You Need is Love

They were chasing him. Large groups of crazed fans. Girls. They wanted him. Wanted a piece of him… _Something_ from him. Wanted _anything_ from him. He was panting…wheezing… his chest was burning. He’d been running for countless seconds, minutes, hours now as though his life depended on it, and as far as he knew, it probably did. There was no telling what these birds wanted from him. No telling what they’d do to him if and when they caught him. All he knew was that he needed to get as far away from them as humanly possible. There’d been something strange about these birds from the minute he’d laid eyes on them. Maybe it was the hungry look in their eyes…maybe it was the razor sharp fangs they’d seemed to have sprouted before his very eyes. Christ, he was only one person for crying out loud. What did they _want_ from him? The hotel came into view and he breathed a sigh of relief as he bolted up the long walkway to get to the door. The barriers were still in place and fans contained behind them clawed at him from either side, venomous looks in their eyes. He reached for the double doors finally and pulled on its handles in a frantic struggle to get them open. They didn’t budge.

Glancing fearfully behind him, he saw that the girls were still advancing on him and some were even beginning to jump the barriers to get at him. Pounding desperately at the door now, he yelled as loudly as he could for someone…anyone to let him in. Nothing happened. The crazed fans drew frighteningly closer and his frantic cries became terrified screams as they began to grab at the coattails of his suit. “Please…” he was begging now, “Let me in!!”

The doors opened finally and Paul emerged, a displeased look dominating his features as he set eyes on him. “What is it now, Lennon?” he demanded with utter disgust.

“Please, you ‘ave to let me in!!” John pleaded, “They’re gonna tear me to threads!!”

Paul gazed beyond John, an oddly complacent look in his eyes as he took in the gathering mob behind him. “Well, good,” he stated rather coldly.

“What?” John stared at him in disbelief, “Paul, y’don’t understand!!”

“I understand all right,” Paul responded, “I understand that yer out of the band.”

“What?”

“We took a vote…” Paul explained, “You’re out, John.”

“ _Who_ took a vote?”

“The band, of course, along with Eppy, Mal, Neil, and George… everyone really. Yer assistance is no longer needed. We’re already a better band fer it.”

“ _What_?”

“We don’t want you.” Paul’s smug gaze lingered on him only a moment more before it drifted beyond him to the rabid fans that now had him fully surrounded from behind. “Have at ‘im, girls!” he called out to them before shutting the door in John’s face. They grabbed him right then, and before he knew it, he was on the ground; one girl that oddly resembled Cyn, tearing away his clothes. “This is how it has to be, darling,” she told him icily, “It’s the way of the world!”

John squeezed his eyes shut, unable to properly look her in the eye.

“John…” she began to call, her voice oddly distant now, “John…wake up!”

The voice was changing now. Become increasingly distant as though from a different realm altogether. His heart was thudding in his chest.

“John… John… wake up!” it continued, forcing itself rudely into his mind. _Wake up_? Was he sleeping?

“His face is soaking wet!” Was that George?

“Blimey, poor bloke’s ‘aving a nightmare, it seems…”

 _Nightmare_?

“Up and at ‘em, Johnny-boy!” A different voice now. What was going on here? He felt a hand press against the side of his face, the mere touch offering with it, a shaky handle on reality. His strange surroundings began to fade. Someone was coughing now…or was it him? Bloody hell, his throat hurt…

“He’s really warm, isn’t he?” a separate person spoke. He felt someone wiping his face.

“But look at how he shivers.”

Remnants of his nightmare continued to slip away as reality took over, asserting itself rather blatantly with a vengeance. A demented nightmare was all it was, stirred up within the twisted confines of his mind. There were no crazed fans trying to eat him…Cyn wasn’t stripping him down… He was still a Beatle…and Paul didn’t hate him…or did he? Christ, what in bleeding hell was wrong with him?

“Johnny…”

“Mm?” John murmured, his eyes still closed. He felt rather disoriented and sick to his stomach…

“You all right?”

John mumbled something unintelligible, his heavy, sleep-laden Scouse accent pushing his words just shy of comprehension.

“Doctor’s here to see you,”

Coughing again, John cracked an eye open in sheer reluctance, realizing that it was Eppy who had spoken. “Bloody sod off, would ye’?” he grumbled hoarsely, before proceeding to bury his face within the comfort of his arms. His head was throbbing beyond belief, the rhythm seemingly in tune with his still pounding heart. Why couldn’t they leave him be?

“F’chrissakes, wake up, Lennon, would ye’?!” Eppy growled with much more force than John had ever heard him use on anyone let alone him. For a fairy, he sure had the ability to make one jump to attention when he wanted them to.

With a frustrated grunt, John lifted his head with great effort and after rubbing the sleep from his eyes, glared suspiciously in the direction of an older bespectacled man. He was equipped with a white lab coat and thinning hair to match and what looked like a medicine bag full of god knows what. Without so much a word exchange, the man moved towards him and began checking him over starting with a quick glance into the eyes and a hand to the forehead. John was beyond annoyed at this point and moved to slap the man’s hand away. The alleged attempt, quick as it was, proved unsuccessful as Paul, seemingly one step ahead, reached out to grab his arm. “Play nice, Johnny!” he growled in his ear.

“Intruding clod, didn’t even introduce himself, firstly…” John grumbled offhandedly, undoubtedly looking for a reason to display his present anger. He was so fucking exhausted. Really he just wanted to sleep, no hallucinations or nightmares attached…

“Beside the point!” Paul told him, his voice taking on a gentler tone, “Just go along and you’ll be done with this in no time.”

John wasn’t sure why but he felt oddly eased by this bit of information. “Fine…” he muttered compromisingly, “Let’s just get this over with, then…”

The doctor, having been paying no attention to his patient or his negative complaints, was well onto other things, proceeding to check the rest of John’s vitals, and in between, scribbling something onto a clipboard. After a while, an eternity in John’s eyes, the doctor stepped back and took a good look at him, his scrutinizing eyes analyzing him in every way. Feeling a bit uncomfortable, John looked away, finding interest in a small imperfection on the table he was seated at.

“If, you don’t mind my asking, Mr. Lennon,” the doctor spoke finally, his words eloquent and distinguished, “When exactly did you start to realize that you were indeed feeling ill?”

John shrugged, “How should I know?”

“John,” Eppy scolded.

With a roll of the eyes, John reluctantly fixated his gaze on the doctor, “It became obvious today…or rather yesterday…I’d been feeling a bit knackered fer a while, really…”

“What were the initial symptoms that led you to realize that you might not be well?”

John sighed in utter annoyance, “Like I said, I was feeling knackered fer a while…”

“He’s had a headache all day today,” Paul supplied, earning a glare from John.

“And it began today?” the doctor asked, arching a skeptical eyebrow at his patient.

John shrugged again, “I guess…I’ve actually been getting them quite frequently over the past several weeks…I uh…haven’t exactly been sleeping well…”

“Any other sources of discomfort?”

John’s gaze fell tiredly to the floor, “Eyes ache a bit…” he admitted.

“No appetite,” Ringo added, “so he’s probably been a bit nauseous…”

“Kinda been a bit dizzy…I suppose,” John added unwillingly, “Achy…chilled…”

“Been looking a bit ashen of late,” George contributed quietly from the other side of the table, “and he’s developed a bit of a cough.” He avoided John’s gaze, instead exchanging eye-contact with Paul.

“Have you vomited at all?” the doctor asked.

John shook his head, immediately regretting the action as his head was suddenly engulfed in an array of sharp pain, “Felt like it… but no… ‘aven’t…” He glanced around in sudden unease, “We done ‘ere?” he asked hopefully, his tired eyes blinking blearily. He could barely keep them open as it was.

“How’s your throat?” the doctor continued to pry, ignoring the latter part of John’s sentence.

“Fi--” John started to lie, but thought better of it. If he admitted it was bothering him, maybe he’d be given some kind of relief for it. He didn’t feel like thinking about it but he still had a show to put on later. Still had to sing. Currently, he had no idea how he would even be able to pull off such a feat. “S’bit sore…” he sighed heavily.

The doctor nodded as if knowing this would be the case, “Open your mouth and allow me to take a look at it.”

John’s continuously growing exhaustion proceeded to catch up with him right then, and he found he wanted nothing more than to just get this over with. Even if it meant being cooperative John Lennon and led to him portraying the side of him, rarely seen. Without much hesitation, he opened his mouth and the doctor glanced in, shining a light down the back of his throat. “Okay,” he said after awhile, “Go ahead and close it.”

Eppy had been standing off to the side, wringing his hands repetitively in mounting apprehension, “How’s ‘e look, doctor?”

“His throat’s showing some minor irritation,” the doctor relayed without sympathy, “But it’s nothing that a few lozenges can’t help to soothe.” He reached into his medicine bag and pulled out a thermometer, “Hold this under your tongue, Mr. Lennon, if you will.”

Reluctance slowing the effort, John obeyed and submissively held the object in place while the doctor waited. Several minutes or so passed before he removed the slender object and gazed at it. “101.7,” he reported more to himself than to anyone else.

Eppy gasped, “Almost 102 degrees!! That sounds bloody high even in Fahrenheit terms!”

“I’d like to prescribe some fever-reducers,” the doctor stated, turning to look from John to Eppy, “If he starts taking them now, he should be okay by tonight.”

“That’s it?” Paul asked unable to contain his amazement.

“That and some meds to help alleviate his symptoms. There’s not much I can do for the cold he’s developing as we haven’t the technology to properly eliminate viruses. He’ll simply have to consume plenty of fluids, rest when he can, and let the illness run its course. Lucky for him, the strain seems a bit mild in my eyes.”

“A _cold_?” Paul echoed, disbelievingly, “Just a _cold_?”

“A _cold_ can be hard on the body when the patient is suffering the effects of prolonged exhaustion,” the doctor explained mockingly, his tone riddled with supreme snide arrogance.

“But how can ye’ be sure a cold is all it is?” Paul demanded persistently, “Haven’t you any tests to run? He’s got a 102 degree fever fer crying out loud!”

“I’m _one_ physician, not a _full_ hospital,” the doctor condescendingly spat at him, clearly disliking the negatively insinuating tone locked within the bassist’s words, “This is _my_ diagnosis to give! I’m not sure how things work in so-called _Great Britain_ but last I checked; _here_ in _America_ , _physicians_ , not _musicians_ are allowed to diagnose.”

John’s worn, feverish eyes locked on the doctor in a rather sluggish but menacing way. “I don’t think I care fer yer tone!” he growled indignantly, rising unsteadily from his seat in a heated manner.

“John,” Eppy sharply warned, recognizing the look in his eye, “Not now!!”

John slid lethargically back into his seat more so from the unrelenting dizziness that had proceeded to grip him.

“Listen to your manager,” the doctor told him, regarding him calmly, “I’m in charge of everything you currently need to feel better.”

“Well, y’didn’t have to get yer bloody bloomers in a bunch. Paul was just asking a question, y’know,” John muttered resignedly, momentarily closing his eyes against the stubborn wooziness in his head. He sat up after a while despite its persistent grip that was ever paired with constant ache in his body, “So when can I get in on these meds y’speak of?”

“As soon as one of you takes a trip to the local pharmacy,” the doctor responded apathetically, “Here’s a written prescription for everything you are to indulge in. Follow the directions on each bottle, and don’t mix anything that you shouldn’t.”

“No alcohol then,” Ringo stated knowingly.

“Correct,” the doctor responded, tossing the prescription on the table, “Now if you don’t mind, I have another house call I must attend to.” He turned to leave without so much a glance at any of the faces that surrounded him.

“Always a pleasure.” John muttered derisively, “Do us all a bloody favor and stock up on some compassion next time. Goes a long way, y’know.”

Eppy met him with a sharp glare before hurrying to catch up with the boorish doctor who now stood a ways off, a condescending look aimed at John. “Sorry about that,” he stated regretfully, “John’s well…John…”

“Just be thankful I haven’t decided to charge you extra for my troubles, _Brit_!” the doctor hissed at him, his pale blue eyes shifting icily towards him, through thick-rimmed glasses.

Eppy emitted a nervous laugh, ending it abruptly as he caught John’s indignant fever-fed expression out of the corner of his eye. He cast a briefly assuring smile in the guitarist’s direction and John relaxed slightly though his eyes remained heated as he warily eyed the doctor.

“You ought to put a muzzle on that one,” the doctor scoffed, gesturing towards John.

Eppy laughed again, struggling to remain courteous in the face of the ill-mannered man, “Right…well…thank you for your time, sir! Sorry to be a bother.”

“You’ll be sorry all right…” the doctor muttered under his breath, his barely uttered words falling mute to everyone in the room. He grunted audibly and made his way hastily towards the door, escaping mercifully into the hallway as though he couldn’t get away soon enough.

“Gerrout of ‘ere, y’blinkered sod!” John grumbled after him, not seeming to care that the doctor wasn’t quite out of earshot.

“I don’t think e’s a fan of ours,” Ringo casually concluded as he watched the door shut.

“Or our homeland,” George supplied quietly, “Fucking bigot if I ever saw one…”

“Well, the feelings are bloody mutual.” Paul muttered flatly, “For his sake and John’s as well, I hope he at least knew what he was talking about.”

Ringo smirked, “We should’ve let John knock some sense into ‘im,” he quipped only half-jokingly, “Right, Johnny?”

Having been staring absently at the closed door the doctor had escaped through moments ago, John jolted at the mention of his name. “Huh?” he murmured, distractedly.

That doctor,” Ringo emphasized, “We should’ve let you knock some sense into ‘im.”

John stared blankly at him a moment before finally managing to take hold of his words, “Right, y’should’ve…” he muttered with delayed bitterness.

Ringo blinked at him, taking slightly aback by the uncharacteristic reaction on John’s behalf, “You all right? Can’t imagine you feel too well with that fever yer running…”

John gave his head a shake as though to clear it, “I’m all right…” With a forced smile, he attempted to bring forth his expected Lennon persona as for the sole purpose of instilling a bit of normalcy on his part, “Fucking sod… The nerve of ‘im talkin’ to Macca and Eppy that way… Last I checked, only I had that privilege…” His words lacked the fire he had meant for them to portray but he found he was too drained to really care. Energy was almost nonexistent…

Eppy shook his head with an air of enthusiasm mixed with impatience, “Well, sod or not, he’s gonna get ye’ back up to par for the show tonight, Johnny!” he announced gleefully. “Now, I’m gonna have Mal fill these prescription for you.”

John nodded sleepily and folded his arms on the table. No sooner did he have his head resting in the crook of his arm, his eyes falling closed.

“Ey, Johnny…” Paul spoke, his voice full of remorse as he carefully eyed the fading guitarist, “Sorry fer getting mad at ye’ earlier. I know y’couldn’t help yerself, lying and all. You are who you are; even if yer the most stubborn, hard-headed bastard I know…”

John cracked an eye open and gazed lazily at him, “I’m sorry, love…but I couldn’t ‘ear ye’ over all that extra stuff ye’ said at the end.”

Paul grinned in spite of himself, “Ye’ heard me, Lennon.”

John managed a tired smile, “Well…if anyone should be apologizin’ it’s me…” He sat up, rubbing roughly at his eyes and glanced wearily in George’s direction catching his fleeting gaze. “I’m uh…sorry fer…being such a git t’ye’, Geo. I didn’t mean anything I said…I was just annoyed and whatnot…Took it out on ye’ without meaning to…”

George cracked a smile, noting the sincerity in his friend’s wording, “S’okay, mate…” he responded good-naturedly, “Fer the record, ye’ weren’t entirely in yer head.”

Ringo arched an eyebrow at the played out scenario, “Blimey, a genuine Lennon apology!” he gasped in mock amazement, “He _must be_ sick!”

“Not too sick t’make ye’ bleed, Starr!” John countered sharply, a transitory glare finding the drummer.

Ringo danced out of reach. “You’d ‘ave to catch me first!”

John glared at him a moment more before allowing his eyes to fall closed in complete disregard. “Can’t be arsed to deal with this bloody rubbish…” he muttered thickly.

George’s eyes widened, “Y’must be dying then, John!” he breathed incredulously.

“Poor baby,” Ringo cooed, furtively re-approaching John. He proceeded to playfully stroke his hair in a rather affectionate manner, “Where’s it hurt, love? I’ll kiss it better!” He looked up, receiving amused glances from Paul and George. “A kiss from Ringo goes a long way, y’know!” he told them defensively.

“Says who?” George challenged.

“Everyone!” Ringo shrugged, as though the revelation was something that the whole world unquestionably knew.

“ _Everyone_? And just who are all these people yer kissing so freely behind Mo’s back, Rings?” Paul wanted to know.

“Just mummy and daddy, I bet,” George quipped teasingly, earning a heated glare from Ringo, “That’s everyone in ‘is world, y’know. No one else would dare go near that nose of ‘is in fear they might get an eye poked out!!”

Ringo smirked, “I think they’d be more afraid of being smothered by those monstrous eyebrows of yers, really!”

“You dream every night of ‘aving me eyebrows in place of that oversized beak. Admit it, Rings!” George countered.

Knowing from experience how such a duel would normally pan out, Paul forcibly inserted himself into the conversation before Ringo could readily respond with a quip of his own, “Geo, you have wonderful, soft, lustrous eyebrows. Rings, yer nose is pleasantly enlarged and pleasing to the eyes of others, all right? Now both of ye’ come off it.”

“But I don’t--” Ringo started.

“But, nothing!! Be quiet, will ye’?” Paul interjected, gesturing frantically towards John. The worn out Beatle, in the midst of all the goading banter, had somehow managed to fall back to sleep with Ringo still absently stroking his head. Ringo temporarily frowned, finding it slightly unusual that John hadn’t uttered even one homosexual joke beforehand.

George arched an eyebrow in mild amusement as he gazed at John, “Now the poor bloke’s bound to ‘ave nightmares again…” he stated seriously, “Last thing he was aware of before he dropped off was Ringo of all people caressing him ever so gently…” A resulting grin broke out as he lifted his eyes to Ringo’s face, “Take advantage of Johnny while ‘e’s sick, will ye’?”

“I can’t help it,” Ringo responded softly with a playful grin of his own as he marveled momentarily at his band mate’s sleeping form, “Johnny looks right adorable when ‘e sleeps… like an innocent child, really.”

George smirked, “Goes to show how looks can be deceiving! It should be illegal to use innocent and John in the same sentence.”

Paul remained serious, “He’ll need a lot more energy if he’s going to make it through the night…” he sighed with an air of apprehension, “That git of a doctor had better ‘ave done a thorough job when looking him over…”

“His people skills weren’t the best but I’m sure ‘e did, Paul,” Ringo made an effort to assure him, “It’s the least he could do, really.”

The attempt, however, was to no avail. John was rapidly deteriorating in front of them in the face of an upcoming show and Paul was troubled.

 


	10. It's All Too Much

“Room service!!” Ringo announced cheerfully as he opened the door, letting in a rather large hotel staff waiter. George was practically on his feet in seconds flat, drooling with desire over the wafting scent that had since filled the room.

“What is it?” he demanded excitedly, eyeing the cart with maximum interest. The food was currently concealed from view and it buggered the hell out of him.

“Good evening, Mr. Harrison,” the waiter politely greeted him. He then proceeded to throw smiles at Paul and John who were currently perched on the sofa with the telly on in front of them. “Mr. Lennon, Mr. McCartney,” he added. Paul threw back a polite greeting while John just stared with exhaustion-laden disinterest in his glazed eyes.

If there were any traces of enamor within the waiter’s antics, it was well hidden in the midst of his professionalism. George liked that. Too many hotels and restaurants consisted of staff that found themselves so star-stuck in their presence; they had no clue what they were doing. George could easily recall a time he had ended up with tea in his lap due to a particular lady who had been staring at him so intently she had missed the cup completely that she’d been attempting to fill. It was an unpleasant memory forever imprinted in his mind mostly because the others, particularly Paul and John, had never allowed him to live it down. The waiter proceeded to push a cart towards the dining table and left it there before turning back to face him. “I can assure you, Mr. Harrison, that you will be eating a highly delectable American favorite known as…” The waiter paused momentarily for dramatic effect.

George’s jaw dropped in anticipation. ‘ _C’mon out with it_ …’ he pleaded inwardly as he stared longingly at the dome-shaped covers that kept everything from sight.

“Don’t tell him, anymore,” Ringo interrupted with a whine, “E’ll ‘ave the whole thing devoured before ye’ even finish talking!”

“I won’t!” George argued, “I’m perfectly capable of containing meself, y’know!”

Both Paul and John scoffed from the couch in perfect unison but remained separated from the conversation, their gazes fixated on the telly.

The waiter smiled, “I’ll let you discover for yourself then. If you have any questions regarding your meal or requests, feel free to phone down to the kitchen.”

Ringo nodded appreciatively, “Thank you, sir!!”

“Much obliged,” the waiter responded before leaving the room.

As soon as the waiter left, George was practically on top of the cart, removing the obstructive covers and revealing four well-crafted hamburgers, along with a large selection of fries. To the left of the main course was some kind of cake of some sort. “‘Ello, what’s this?” he asked, peering at the meal with curiosity.

“Does it matter?” Paul piped from the couch, “You’ll eat it, anyway, y’bleeding gourmand…” He rose from his seat beside John and made his way towards the cart. “It looks like we’re ‘aving ‘amburgers,” he stated with piqued interest, “With a side of potato wedges, and fer dessert, New York style cheesecake!”

George smirked mockingly at him, “Well aren’t you the expert know-it-all, Paulie.”

Paul grinned brightly, “Let’s give it a try, lads!”

George glared at Ringo as he reached for a plate, “Yer gonna be sorry y’didn’t let the waiter serve us. I may end up taking more than I’m supposed to!”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Ringo responded absently. He gazed over to the sofa where John remained, his attention still seemingly captivated by the telly. “Y’coming for a bite to eat, Johnny?” he called, “Y’need it!”

“Don’t feel like it…” John responded tiredly, not even bothering to glance in his direction.

“Would ye’ rather pass out on stage?” Paul joined in, “Yer feeling poorly as it is and you’ve barely eaten.”

“Sod off…I’m _not_ hungry…” John irritably insisted, “M’bloody nauseous…”

“At least come see what there is,” Paul continued persistently, “Maybe yer stomach will change its mind.”

“Or _maybe_ I’ll throw up on ye’ instead…” John grumbled mockingly with ample cynicism. The feverish Beatle rose unsteadily to his feet, nonetheless, and made his way gingerly towards the set up in the dining area. The smell hit him midway and he stopped dead in his tracks, his face taking on a slight greenish tint.

Paul frowned, “Ye’ all right?”

John didn’t readily respond, instead wrapped an arm around his stomach in a nauseated manner. “I feel…bloody…sick…” he murmured shakily after a while, swallowing hard. Resulting beads of sweat broke out on his face and he absently ran a hand through his hair in a struggle to get it away from his forehead as though feeling undeniably uncomfortable, “Don’t think I’d better come any closer…”

Ringo’s eyes widened, “Christ, John, y’look like yer gon’--” The rest of his statement was lost as John’s stomach chose that very moment to shift into sudden reverse. Emitting a horrible retching sound, he took off desperately for the nearest bathroom, hand over mouth.

“Well, that’s that,” Paul stated with an air of finality.

“Is ‘e throwing up?” George asked; staring off in the direction John had disappeared in.

“No, he’s doing bloody cartwheels in the loo,” Paul muttered with Lennon-like sarcasm, “I’m going to go check on him. You lads can eat or bugger off…”

Ringo frowned as Paul left the room, “Wonder where Mal is with that medication…” he mused aloud.

George shrugged, “I don’t know, but if John’s not eating, maybe he won’t mind if I ‘ave his share…”

Ringo failed to respond to him directly. “Let’s get everything on the table,” he said softly, “That way it’s all ready fer Paul at least, when ‘e returns.”

“And John?”

“We may ‘ave to whip up something special fer him,” Ringo revealed, placing the large plates of food in the center of the table.

George grinned in an air of amusement mixed with awe, “Yer quite the mama bear today, Rings!” he stated appreciatively, “Y’were like that with me too when I got sick last…Why is that?”

Ringo smiled, as he moved on to set a place at the table for Paul, “I spent a lot of time in a hospital as a child. I know what it’s like to be sick…” With that said; he made his way back to where he had set a place for himself and took a seat. George did the same and the two began eating in silence, taking time in between to taste and savor every bite.

“This is bloody fantastic!” George broke out after a while, his mouth full of food, “Makes me wonder why we weren’t eating more of these while we were stayin’ in ‘Amburg!”

Ringo nodded in agreement, “We’ll definitely ‘ave to send our compliments to the chef and the staff!” He started to say more but his voice trailed off as he noticed John’s wan, worn out form entering the room. Paul trailed in behind him, a concerned look plaguing his face. He whispered something to John and pointed over to the sofa. John nodded in what looked like immense effort and made his way in the direction Paul had pointed.

“How’re ye’ doing, Johnny?” Ringo called to him.

John just grunted in his direction and flopped down on the sofa away from them.

“Did he throw up?” George quietly asked as Paul made his way over towards them for his share of the meal.

“Poor bloke just dry heaved…” Paul sighed, “Really didn’t ‘ave much in ‘im t’begin with,” He paused to think, “Colds don’t generally make people throw up, y’know…that I know of…Come to think of it, I’ve never really heard of anyone passing out from one either…”

George nodded solemnly, “He’s prolly comin’ down with the flu…like I ‘ad before…”

“And if he is,” Paul added, “that would make the doctor wrong…wouldn’t it…?”

“ _Easy_ , Sherlock Holmes,” Ringo put in, desperate to keep an optimistic outlook on things, “Let’s not jump to conclusions, ‘ere.”

“But it _is_ a possibility, Rings,” George sighed, bringing the likelihood to light. He’d been under the initial impression all along.

“How lovely…” Paul muttered with a heavy sigh, “Flu or not, just how’re we supposed to get through tonight? It’s too late to cancel…Eppy and Mal would _never_ be on board. But at the same time, we can’t ‘ave John on stage gagging in between songs while we perform either. A right recipe fer disaster that would be…”

George shrugged, “They might go as far as to remove John from the show,” he stated quietly, “though I hope it won’t come to it…”

“Then we wouldn’t be able to play any of the songs that portray John as lead singer…” Ringo sighed dejectedly, “New York would be disappointed! They expect to see the Beatles as a whole…not 3/4ths of ‘em…” He frowned, rising from his seat, “I’m gon’ make ‘im some tea and toast… See if he can at least keep that down.” George hungrily eyed his leftover fries. “You can ‘ave ‘im, Geo,” Ringo sighed, knowing fully what the guitarist was insinuating with his body language.

Paul shook his head in a mixture of disbelief and amusement.

As Ringo moved to fill a kettle, the door to their suite opened right and Eppy entered the room with Mal behind him. “‘Ello lads,” he greeted them cheerfully, “I see you’ve all settled down for a bite to eat! Y’must’ve been starving!!”

“If ye’ only knew!” George stated midway into Ringo’s fries.

Eppy frowned as the realization that John wasn’t eating with the others dawned on him. “Where’s John?” he asked, “I ‘ave his medication.”

Ringo pointed over to the sofa and Eppy went over to talk with him.

“Did he eat any?” Mal asked.

“Not a bite…” Ringo muttered, “I’m working to change that as we speak.”

“Good. He can’t right take anything on an empty stomach,” Mal sighed, tiredly.

“Y’blokes hungry?” Paul asked both Eppy and Mal, “There’s some fries and cheesecake still left, y’know…Whatever George ‘asn’t already consumed, that is…” he added flatly.

“We ate already, Paul,” Mal replied with a smile, “Y’lads ‘ave yer fill. You’ll need it.”

Following a span of thirty minutes, John was eventually given a cup of mint tea to help settle his stomach along with a bite of toast to eat, courtesy of Ringo, followed by a large dose of various meds in a specific order, courtesy of Eppy. “Among these are some uppers,” Eppy explained as he handed John bottle after bottle verbalizing the alleged dose in between, “Should be enough to get you through the night. How’re ye’ feeling?”

“Tired…” John muttered, simultaneously raking a hand crudely through his hair.

“Y’might want to get started on those uppers then,” Eppy advised him, “It’s a long night ahead of us and there won’t be time to rest in between events.” He then added hopefully, “You don’t suppose yer feeling a bit better as well?”

John started to shrug his indifference but after catching the concerned look Eppy chose to shoot him with right then, he quickly forced a Lennon trademark grin, “…A bit better,” he confirmed though at the moment it was the furthest statement from the truth. He could only hope all these drugs would kick in soon. Currently, he didn’t feel he could even make it to the limo without creating a situation.

“That’s m’boy!” Eppy grinned, permanently convinced, much to John’s relief.

John watched for a bit as his satisfied manager rose from his seat beside him before leaning his head back and taking in a deep breath. So much chatter had filled their hotel suite over the course of the past half hour or so. Things were being said…plans were being made. He couldn’t bring himself to remotely tune in, let alone join in. Christ. All he wanted was some peace and quiet so he could bloody think for a change. ‘ _Is that so much to ask_?’ he wondered wearily as he allowed his eyes to close.

It was a known fact that once they arrived at the destination of their show, thinking would become something of the past. They’d slip into autopilot mode and everything that followed would take care of itself and fall into place. The fans would be right barmy…they always were. In their presence, no one would be able to hear… no one would be able to think… not for a minute, not even for a second. ‘ _Banshees, the lot of ‘em_ …’ John mused tiredly. That was what they all sounded like on a regular basis. It rather seemed the vocal chords of their fans were constantly regenerating or were maybe incapable of fizzling out to begin with. Maybe they weren’t fans at all, but partial robots programmed as fans to trick them into believing they had had a real taste of success; that the Beatles were someone important. Maybe they had no fans… This touring business would all be a waste then, wouldn’t it? John smirked in spite of himself. How was that for a twist to the plot? Right certain no one would grow to expect it, least of all, the Beatles.

Truthfully, John dreaded the thought of performing that night. His bloody head would not stop hurting…his ears had been ringing nonstop all day…and he was still ridiculously nauseous. He just couldn’t get a break for chrissakes. Now he had to add millions of screaming fans to the mix. It was possible he might die tonight. He rubbed a hand over his forehead and emitted a low groan, wondering how his head could _still_ be bothering him _so much_ after all these endless hours. Surely, his body was going for some kind of record…or maybe it was going on bloody strike. ‘ _You chose to run me into the ground, you suffer the consequences_ ,’ he could almost hear his stupid body gleefully tell him. ‘ _You dug your grave, Johnny, you lay in it_.’…or however that stupid saying went. Bloody hell, if it meant he could sleep, he’d lay anywhere… Preferably somewhere cold and laced with ice…like Greenland…or maybe Antarctica. He was so bloody fucking hot all of a sudden… ‘ _Greenland’_ , he mused feverishly, ‘ _That was the place with all the ice…yet Iceland was the place that was green and ice free… Funny how that worked._ ’He absently fanned at his face. ‘ _England…what was up with that name, anyhow_? _How did most countries even get their names_?’ John frowned at the abundance of erratic thoughts that were parading wildly through his dilapidated mind. Why was he even thinking about such things, anyway? ‘ _…What are ye’ even on about, Lennon?’_ His brain seemed to be working involuntarily…like a malfunctioning machine of some sort.A bit of unease proceeded to grip him as he vaguely began to realize thathe was starting to feel considerably out of it… detached… Not quite in tune with reality… ‘ _More importantly what are ye’ bloody on_??’ Christ, it was so bloody hot now. Why was it so hot?

At some point, someone else sat beside him and John forced himself to reopen his heavy eyes, realizing with reluctance that any chance of additional sleep was increasingly becoming unlikely. Though he was grateful for the bit of a kip he’d managed to get in earlier, the amount of exhaustion that continued to plague him only seemed to be growing. If the meds would just hurry up and kick in, he might feel better… _Better_. What did that feel like again?

John allowed his bleary eyes to focus on the figure that sat beside him. For a split, extraordinary second, he could’ve sworn he had come face to face with his own self. A separate John Winston Lennon staring back at him with every bit the mocking, cynical expression he was immaculately capable of throwing about. “ _Aren’t you a sorry sight for sore eyes_ ,” his mirror image spoke condescendingly, those eyes gleaming in utter ridicule. In a disoriented panic, John literally had to close and reopen his eyes to justify that he was, in fact, seeing things. The sigh of relief eased out of him as his second glance proved to be less frightening as the false reflection, ever so evasive, danced away leaving Paul in its wake. The way Paul was frowning worriedly at him, John had to wonder if he’d managed to catch the look of fear he’d thoughtlessly portrayed in the face of…himself…

“You all right, John?” Paul spoke finally, giving him a complete onceover with his eyes.

John faked a smile for the sake of his sanity or at this point, what was left of it, “Yeah…why wouldn’t I be…”

“You looked as though you didn’t recognize me fer a second…It was a bit frightening, really…”

“What do you want?” John sighed, unable to keep his exhaustion from ruling his emotions in the most negative of ways.

Paul didn’t reply. His brown eyes locked instantly with John’s and he wordlessly proceeded to study him as if searching frantically for any flaws that may have been hidden from the gazes of others. John was good at that sort of thing; hiding how he truly felt and Paul knew it. For John, it was an art, practiced to the point of mere perfection; and truthfully, Paul was the only one capable of seeing through any wall he’d readily project around himself. Needless to say, John already knew what the bassist was getting at; knew what he was trying to gain…knew what he was trying to figure out for himself.

Perhaps he’d save him the trouble and just tell him what he wanted to hear…the truth so to speak. How he wanted nothing more than to cancel the show despite the fact that they couldn’t on such short notice. How utterly hot, zonked, and sick he was feeling. How he wanted nothing more than to just put this all behind him. How desperate he was to just _feel_ better. He was terribly homesick too and a bit depressed… He wanted to be home. Wanted…Wanted his mother… His _mother_ …what an uncharacteristic nancy boy thought he had resorted to. Well, she wouldn’t want him now, anyway… After the way he had acted in her presence, not many people would…

Paul’s frown lengthened, outwardly portraying the fact that he didn’t like what he was seeing in regards to his friend’s appearance. John suddenly felt overly self-conscious. Perhaps Paul didn’t wish to know him either… Perhaps he wanted him out of the band…like in that nightmare he had…. That _was_ a nightmare, wasn’t it? He was a right burden, really… Sick in the face of an upcoming show with no way to back out…What rubbish… Perhaps the entire band wanted nothing to do with him at this point. Right certain, they didn’t…who would? _They all left in the end_ …

John turned away from Paul and struggling to gather his toughest façade yet, spoke in as convincing a voice as he could muster for his own sake. “I’m fine, Macca…” he tried to assure him, his voice quavering only slightly.

Paul resultantly tilted his head to the side as if he knew far better than what John was telling him. “You can’t lie to me, Lennon,” he stated calmly, “Never could, ye’ know.”

John shrugged, “It was worth a shot.”

“Feeling any better?” Paul asked, though John somehow had the feeling he already knew the answer.

“Meds could take a while to work or so I’ve ‘eard,” John responded wearily, “They might make me tired when they do…but then there’s those uppers Eppy gave me…” he managed an amused grin, “I’m gonna be all kinds of messed up tonight…” If he wasn’t already…

“Let’s hope you’ll still know what yer doing,” Paul responded, with a small equally amused laugh, “Something tells me Eppy won’t take too kindly to a drugged Lennon parading around on stage like a mad man.”

John mock pouted, “Mad’s me middle name, y’know.”

Paul smirked, “John Mad Lennon. Has a nice sound to it, really. Rolls right off the tongue.”

John’s fevered eyes lit up, “It does, doesn’t it?” he responded with utmost seriousness. He started to laugh but midway into it fell serious again. He had such a massive headache. Why couldn’t he just shake the bloody thing already?

Paul frowned, traces of amusement leaving his face, “You all right, love?”

“I feel bloody…sick…” John murmured semi-coherently, his own words seeming to fade in and out of earshot. The odd sensation of unreality continued to grip him, seeming to drive a wedge between what was happening and what was exaggerated. He felt as though he was entering a permanent dreamlike state of some sort one in which everything had a delayed reaction including himself… He swallowed hard, feeling like he might throw up and decided it was best to maybe close his eyes in desperate attempt to rid himself of the god-awful feeling.

“I know you do…” Paul responded finally, his voice sounding strangely far-off, “I think those meds should start to kick in soon if they ‘aven’t already,” he added.

“I hope so …” John murmured, daring to reopen his eyes despite the increased nausea stirring up within him, “Hate this feeling ill crap… Makes me feel like a bit of a…nancy boy, really.” He paused swallowing hard, his glassy eyes taking on a newly distant look, “Saw me mum today, y’know,” he said suddenly, his tone taking on a casual aspect in spite of what he was affirming.

Paul knitted his brows together as he regarded John with sudden confusion, “What?” he questioned.

“Me mum,” John repeated nonchalantly, “She came to visit me while I was catching a kip.”

“You _sure_ yer all right, Johnny?” Paul asked, frowning at him now. He started to reach for John’s forehead but John swatted him away.

“Took me by surprise too…” he went on, “At first, I didn’t recognize her but then…I did…and…” He paused, taking in a sudden quavering breath and swallowing painfully, “I got upset with her…yelled at ‘er and everything…” He could feel tears coming into his eyes and he wiped frantically at them, “I told ‘er to go away…”

“John,” Paul interjected, worriedly, “I think you--”

“Really yelled at her, Paulie. I made it seem like I didn’t care she had come to see me when I did. I _really_ did. I scared her off…” John could feel his own body shaking as he attempted to fight back tears, “I made ‘er disappear…” The strong, wet, racking, sobbing spasms that plagued him were starting to become a bit more persistent now to the point that he couldn’t even begin to control them. The tears had ceased to fall but…he couldn’t stop shaking…couldn’t stop gasping and hiccupping. Had he cracked? Gone mad? Great… Now he could add barmy to the long list of crap that was wrong with him. Hiccups…Did he have those now too? A strange dreamlike haze continued to fill his mind…

Paul frowned apprehensively before hastily bringing himself to get a trembling hand to John’s forehead. He could feel the present fever radiating from it long before actual contact was made and the discovery frightened him. John was fucking burning up.

“I’m going to go get you some water okay, mate?”

John didn’t answer, lost in the midst of his own misery.

“It’ll be okay, Johnny…” Paul whispered. He glanced frantically around the room. Out of their entire entourage, no one seemed aware of their ordeal. He didn’t know whether to be thankful or angered with their lack of perception. He knew John wouldn’t want anyone to see him as he was but at the same time, he was coming off a bit delirious…or maybe it was the excessive amount of drugs kicking in? Paul frowned, his worry increasing. If he could help it, John Lennon wasn’t leaving his sight tonight.

Paul made his way into the kitchen and headed for the fridge. The rest was a bit of blur. Next thing he knew, he was handing John a water bottle and watching with slight concern as the rhythm guitarist tore the cap off and began to mercifully gulp it down, barely taking time to breathe in between. “Fer chrissakes, Johnny…” he exclaimed, “Yer gonna make yerself sick! Slow down!!”

Taking in one last gulp, John recapped the water bottle and glanced up at him. Tears were in his eyes once again. Christ, what is going on with him? Paul wondered worriedly as he took a momentary seat beside his friend. That did it. He was getting a doctor back there, even if it meant he had to make the call himself and bring that stupid bigoted git back into the mix.

“I think you need to lie down fer a bit before we go,” Paul told John apprehensively, unsure really of how to take his best mate’s sudden vulnerability, “You’ll be all right. Yer just a bit feverish and sick…and that mixed with whatever it was that doctor’s prescribed for you; it’s making you a bit emotional is all. Lay here.” Paul commanded. Rising from his seat, he helped him to stretch out lengthwise upon the sofa. “Trust me, you’ll feel worlds better once ye’ do. Close yer eyes and go to sleep. I’ll wake you when it’s time.”

“Ye’ thinnk I’m barrmy…” John pouted, glaring up accusingly at him, “Ye’ want me out of th’band…don’t yerrr.”

“What? John--”

“Well, I won’t let yerrr…tthroww me out…” John whispered, “Won’t let yerr take a vote…voote mee out…”

Paul frowned. John was slurring and stumbling over his words in his feverish attempt to make sense…or rather what he thought passed for sense.

“John-love, I don’t…” Paul allowed his words to trail off as they’d be ineffective anyway, “Just go to sleep, will ye’?” he pleaded.

John obediently allowed his eyes to close and within seconds it seemed, was out like a faulty light bulb.

Spotting Eppy a ways a way, speaking with Mal, Paul made his way over towards him and inserted himself into the conversation, not caring how rudely he was coming off.

“Paul, what’s the matter?” Mal asked, seeing the immediate concern in his eyes.

“We need to get that doctor back here,” Paul stated firmly, “The way John’s carrying on right now, there’s no way he can go on with the show.”

“What do ye’ mean?” Eppy asked.

“He’s…I can’t explain it. Just take my word for it, all right? He’s a bloody feverish mess!!”

Mal frowned, “He’s not delirious, is he?”

“He seems it…I don’t know…”

Mal nodded, “I’ll make the call,” he responded seriously.

“I don’t understand!” Eppy frowned, “The meds…aren’t they…?” He didn’t bother finish his statement, making his way across the room towards the sofa where John restlessly slept. Paul followed closely behind. The furious red that gripped John’s entire face said it all. He was on fire. Eppy looked ready to cry. “Bloody ‘ell…the show…we can’t…”

Paul remained calm, “Easy, Eppy,” he consoled their manager, “Let’s see what the doctor has to say before we make any assumptions,” Paul was never sure how he could manage to remain so upbeat on the outside at times like this. Inside, he was a right bundle of nerves.

Eppy heaved a sigh and managed a weak appreciative smile in Paul’s direction, “Yer right…Worse comes to worse, you’ll just have to go on without him.”

Paul bristled at the thought. Go on… _without_ John? Christ, they hadn’t been faced with such a scenario since before the height of supposed Beatlemania… _Go_ on _without_ _John_? Was it even possible to use those words together to form a sentence? Sure he had been openly discussing it as a possibility with George and Ringo not that long ago, but… hearing it come out now from Eppy’s mouth just made it seemed so…bloody final…

“Doctor’s here!” Mal announced, showing up at their side rather suddenly with Ringo and George on his wings.

“That was quick!” Eppy commented, half incredulously, half thankfully.

Paul frowned, as he gazed behind Mal and his band mates, recognizing once again, the quack that had dared to set foot within their suite earlier. The so-called doctor was already eyeing him disdainfully.

“He was in the building already,” Mal explained, failing to notice the hostile exchanges, “Someone had a seizure a few rooms over.”

“And _he’s_ their source of relief?” Ringo muttered under his breath, coming up beside Paul.

“Tell me about it,” Paul muttered unhappily.

“Well,” the doctor spoke, daring to glare now at Mal, “What’s the problem here? I’m a busy man. I’d love to sit here and _bask_ all day in the presence of such _big_ rock stars but, I have a life and a family to tend to.”

“John. Look him over.” Mal stated, keeping his words minimal.

“Didn’t he take the meds I prescribed?” the doctor asked, glancing briefly to John.

“Well yeah…” Eppy inserted himself the conversation, “but--”

“Have you given the meds enough time to kick in?” the doctor interrupted brusquely.

“Does that matter?” Paul demanded, “I don’t believe we’re dealing with a cold here! Look at him. He’s blatantly on fire!!”

“That shouldn’t stop the fever meds from kicking in,” the doctor informed him, approaching and kneeling beside John’s still sleeping form, “Lucky for you, I know just what to do.”

“Do you, now?” Paul warily arched an eyebrow in obvious distrust.

“Paul, let him work his magic,” Eppy sharply advised, “I’m willing to take anything we can get right now.”

“He’s treating him fer a cold!” Paul hissed at him, “How in bloody hell’s it going to work if he’s sick with something else?”

“Just trust that he knows what he’s doing!” Eppy sighed, “We don’t have a lot of time to spare here, and its best we take what we’re offered.”

“Someone, wake him up,” the doctor ordered insensitively, “He needs to be awake if I’m to give him something to bring down that nasty fever of his.”

Being the closest, Mal took the matter into his own hands. John fought him feverishly for several seconds before finally obeying and sitting up slightly. After a while, his unfocused gaze fell on the doctor, but there was no trace of recognition in his dull eyes as he eyed the man.

‘ _God_ ,’ Paul thought worriedly, ‘… _he’s so out of it_ …’

The doctor frowned seeing this, and instantly pressed a hand against John’s forehead, his brow furrowing as he concluded the presence of a high fever. He then reached quickly into his bag for a thermometer. Finding one, he shoved it under John’s tongue without hesitation.

“Just hold it, for a minute,” he ordered John who remained eerily quiet, as he stared straight ahead, his lethargic gaze focused on nothing in particular.

Several long seconds passed, each one seeming like an hour before the doctor finally removed the long slender tube from John’s mouth.

“103.9…” he frowned.

“Bloody ‘ell…” Ringo exclaimed, “Shouldn’t he be in a hospital?!”

“Not a cold…” the doctor mused aloud, ignoring Ringo. He reached again into his bag pulling out a syringe of some sort and without so much a word of explanation, proceeded to inject John with something.

“What’s that?” Mal demanded.

“Let him sleep a few hours and he should regain coherence as his fever drops.”

“What?” both George and Paul chorused in disbelief.

“No…” Ringo shook his head adamantly, “I’ve spent enough time in a hospital as a child to know that John needs to be in one!!”

“Boys…” Eppy sighed resignedly, “Please…”

The doctor scoffed, “Have you now, _Mr. Starr_ …is it? And I’m sure there are thousands out there like you who have done exactly the same. Grown up in hospitals, so to speak. Doesn’t make them all doctors now, however, does it?”

Ringo’s blue eyes narrowed at him, but he said nothing more, managing to keep his emotions in check.

“What did you give him?” Paul demanded, taking up where Mal had left off.

“A fever reducer. That is the issue here, is it not?” the doctor remarked snidely.

“He needs a proper diagnosis…” Paul protested, “You said so yerself that it wasn’t a cold, so what is it?”

“A particularly bad case of the flu, if I’m not mistaken, which I don’t believe that I am,” the doctor responded, “Rarely am I mistaken,” he added arrogantly.

“Well, you _were_ mistaken once already today,” George mused aloud, his voice laden with sarcasm, “so, it must be our lucky day then, to catch you in the aftermath of such a rare occurrence!”

The doctor met him with a hostile look.

Eppy looked embarrassed, “I’m sorry doctor. I’m not sure what’s come over everyone but I promise none of it is intentional.”

The doctor ignored his apology. “Just follow my orders and he’ll be coherent for tonight. What I’ve done for him won’t repair him, but it should help to ease things a bit. Make sure he consumes plenty of fluids. If he feels faint, rest him. If his symptoms worsen, call me. But don’t expect it to be a free offer.” With that said, the doctor turned to leave.

“How much time do we have?” Eppy asked nervously, glancing about the room.

“It’s five o’clock now…we have to be at Forest Hills by seven…seven-fifteen the latest,” Mal responded, glancing uneasily to his watch, “It’s a half-hour drive plus traffic so…”

Eppy sighed, “Well, we’ll wake John at quarter to six. That leaves him with forty-five minutes of sleep uninterrupted plus he can sleep on the way there. And if by the time we get there, he still doesn’t seem right, we’ll have no choice but to excuse him from the show. The boys won’t be happy but there’s not much else we can do on such short notice.”

 


	11. Misery

Following the periodic application of several makeshift icepacks to his feverish face and neck courtesy of Ringo, John was fully comatose. Finally sleeping soundly and completely oblivious to the frenetic world around him as a full forty-five minutes later Paul knelt beside him and proceeded to shake him in attempt to bring him smoothly back to reality. It seemed like countless hours rather than minutes since the guitarist’s initial fall through into his fit of delirium and Paul was still beside himself in the aftermath. He was shaken, near traumatized in a way and suspense played a large part of it. The disadvantage of not knowing what to expect in regards to his normally boisterous friend intimidated him beyond belief. “Up and at ‘em, Johnny-boy,” he gently cajoled him; managing to keep his voice level despite his troubled mindset, “It’s almost time to leave!”

When John didn’t readily respond, Paul heaved a heavy sigh and glanced around the room, Ringo falling into his line of vision. As if sensing Paul’s distress from a distance, the drummer quickly hurried over, frowning instantly at the appearance of John’s still flushed cheeks and sweat-ridden hair plastered thickly to his forehead. “He all right?” he asked nervously, “He doesn’t look much better if at all…”

“No, he doesn’t…” Paul agreed with growing worry and slight anger towards the quack of a doctor that had looked John over earlier, not once but _twice_. A million things began to race through his head right then as he gazed at the guitarist’s much too soundly sleeping form. What if they couldn’t properly rouse him? Eppy and Mal most definitely wouldn’t waste time pulling the plug on John’s performance. Even worse, what if John was still delirious when they were finally able to wake him? Whether or not he performed in the upcoming show would then be the least of their problems. “Look at ‘im…Clearly he’s burning up, still…” he added with ample aggravation.

“The doctor did say it could take a few hours…two at the most…” Ringo responded searching his mind for a way to calm the bass player down. He glanced to his watch, “It ‘asn’t even been a full hour yet.”

“I don’t care what the quack said,” was Paul’s snappy, stubborn response, “And you shouldn’t either. He’s a blinkered sod that somehow by bloody miracle got a degree to practice in medicine and that’s all there is to it!”

Ringo’s eyes widened as they fell on Paul’s abnormally flustered facial features, “Relax, Paulie!” he pleaded, “Ye’ could kill someone with that look y’got on yer face! Let’s just try and wake him up and see where to go from there.”

Paul sighed heavily with an unnerved shudder, “Okay, then…” he relented. He watched as Ringo proceeded to shake John’s shoulder and held his breath in increased anticipation. That frighteningly vacant look John had thrown about in the midst of his feverish daze beforehand; he wasn’t sure he could handle seeing such a thing if it were to occur again… That _lifeless_ being hadn’t resembled John in the least bit. It was as though something had dared to take over him for that long, drawn out moment in time. Those empty eyes were what affected him the most. More so, the lack of recognition and perception within them. It was something Paul was sure would be with him forever. Imprinted within his memory bank for all eternity regardless of how hard he would try to forget it… _Imprinted_ like the caring and searching gaze of his beloved mother that he’d never again be able to capture within his eyesight no matter how much he longed to do so. Life was funny like that. Only, Paul had yet to see the humor… “I don’t care,” he muttered suddenly, tapping into his still present anger, “if he wakes up looking worse fer wear, I’m calling the paramedics. I’m not letting something ‘appen to John because that bloody doctor was too much of a blinkered prat to see past the tip of his own stupid nose!”

“I’d be right behind ye’,” Ringo responded with calm loyalty, “I’d called it earlier, didn’t I? Stated that John needed to be in a bloody hospital. He shot me down. Made me feel right daft, ‘e did!”

Paul started to reply but the sudden rough cough that escaped John cast any additional comments out the window.

Ringo turned to him. The guitarist had rolled over on his back and was regarding them with a sleepy but slightly amused look on his face. “What’s this about a hospital?” he rasped tiredly. His flushed face took on a grimace at the sound of his own voice and he coughed again before attempting to clear his throat.

“John!” both Beatles chorused in simultaneous astonishment, “Yer awake!”

John rubbed tiredly at his eyes and blinked up at them in surprise, “‘Course I am…” he murmured matter-of-factly, “Why shouldn’t I be?” He rubbed at his throat and attempted to clear it again, “Bloody ‘ell, ‘as me voice always been this bloody annoying?”

“About time ye’ realized it,” Ringo quipped.

John started to respond but Paul quickly interrupted him. “Are ye’ gonna be able to sing tonight?” he demanded, getting immediately down to business, “How do ye’ feel?”

John smirked, his gaze settling back on Paul, “Well…I’m not dead…and the day I’m not up to performing is the day they might as well bury me…”

“Keep on like that and _I_ may end up burying you, meself,” Paul grumbled, glaring down at him, “ _How_ … _do_ … _you_ … _feel, Lennon_?” he repeated, pronouncing each word more slowly and forcefully as if to successfully drive the question finally into John’s head.

“Christ…I’m fine…Relax, would ye’?” John mumbled; traces of his amusement vanishing as Paul proceeded to turn away from him in a huff. Puzzled, John turned to Ringo, “What’s _‘is_ problem?” he muttered.

Ringo didn’t answer. He just shook his head as he disapprovingly gazed in Paul’s direction. The bassist was likely to end up with a hernia with the way he was carrying on today.

“Macca…seriously…I feel all right…” John sighed in attempt to reach out to his irritated band mate, “A bit sick still…but as I’ve said several times, I don’t think I’m about t’die.”

Paul turned back to John and after thoroughly studying his face a bit, placed a hand to his forehead without warning, “Well, y’do feel a bit cooler,” he affirmed without even a trace of relief, “Yer still hot though, John…”

A smirk found its way back to John’s face, “Still hot, ‘ey? …Jealous?”

“Not in the least bit,” Paul responded coolly, “If ye’ remotely experienced what I’ve seen out of ye’, ye’ wouldn’t be, either.”

John’s smirk faded once again, “What?” Did he miss something?

“Never mind, John…” Paul sighed with a small smile, “Glad you’re up.” He glanced up, noting the rapid advancing of Eppy and Mal in their direction and without another word; he walked away, leaving John speechless.

“Christ, what did I do, _now_?” John asked, glancing to Ringo again in confusion.

“Don’t let it trouble ye’, Johnny. I’m gon’ go talk to him,” Ringo stated with a bit of feigned brightness, hurrying off just as the two managers reached John’s side.

John frowned in growing disconcertion before turning with reluctance to face the onslaught of Eppy and Mal. How long _had_ he been asleep, anyway? Everyone was much too concerned over his wellbeing. As much as he loved to be the center of attention at times, he truthfully just wanted to crawl into a dark ditch and lay there permanently at this point. He felt _that_ emotionally tormented and physically awful.

“You’re up, Johnny!” Eppy was the first to speak, his tone much too cheerful for John’s liking. He subsequently placed a hand atop John’s head, “How’re ye’ feeling? Any better?”

John glared up at him wondering vaguely what it would take to eliminate the unwanted touch. His head was rather heavy with pain and the pressure of Eppy’s hand, as slight as it was, wasn’t helping in the least bit. “Bloody lovely, really…” he muttered absently without much in the way of emotion. After taking a moment to look off in Paul and Ringo’s direction, he glanced distractedly away and began idly examining the palm of his hand devoid of interest.

Mal frowned, “You all right?”

The guitarist shrugged indifferently, realizing he wanted nothing more than to be left alone, “I’m fine…” he stated quietly without looking at him.

Still frowning, Mal settled a hand against John’s forehead taking extra care to get beneath his damp hair, “Well, you don’t feel fine, Lennon…”

“Well, I _am_ ,” John snapped forcefully, not caring that he was coming off a bit like an insolent child.

“Listen, are ye’ up fer tonight?” Eppy demanded, dropping down to his knees in front of John so that he was at eyelevel.

“Mmhm…”

It was Eppy’s turn to frown, “Yer still feeling rather lousy, aren’t you?” he stated perceptively.

“I feel like bloody crap…” John muttered mockingly, his eyes narrowing condemningly on Eppy, “Yer not _disappointed_ are ye’?” He shifted his accusing glare to their road manager, “How about you, Mal? Disappointed? No one could blame ye’, really. Seems to be the common theme around ‘ere. John Lennon’s fallen ill _and_ there’s an important show coming up! Bloody ‘ell, how inconsiderate of ‘im! Everybody break out the bloody, fucking torches and pitchforks…”

“Christ John, is that how you think we all feel?” Mal asked incredulously.

“I don’t know what to think, anymore…” John sighed dejectedly, breaking eye contact with both his companions.

Eppy shook his head, solely convinced that it was John’s ever-present fever doing all the talking. “Please, just take it easy from here on out, John,” he responded, his face still twisted worriedly into a frown, “We’re concerned about you, y’know. I don’t want to have to pull you from tonight’s show.”

“I gotta pee…” was John’s disinterested response.

“Clean up while yer at it. Y’look like you’ve been dragged through ‘ell,” Eppy told him, “If yer clothes are wet, I suggest you throw on something dryer before ye’ even think about setting foot outside. Dry your hair too. The last thing y’need is bloody pneumonia on top of whatever it is yer already carrying…”

Before Eppy could finish verbalizing his concerns, the guitarist was stubbornly up on unstable legs and headed for the loo.

Ringo and a much calmer Paul came back just as a blatantly agitated John disappeared from the room. “Where’s ‘e off to?” Paul asked.

“The loo, to clean up,” Eppy responded, staring with a bit of concern in the direction John had previously stalked off in. As though realizing he had unwittingly allowed a bit of apprehension to creep into his being, he quickly turned back to his boys and hastily put on a smile, “How’re my favorite drummer and bassist?” he asked, “Ready for tonight, I hope?”

“I am…” Ringo responded, “And Paul is…but ye’ think John’s gon’ be able t’make it through to the end?”

Eppy’s smile faded, “I should hope so…” He shifted his glance from Ringo, to Paul, to Mal and a smile, almost too wide in nature, found his face again, “No need to worry!” he attempted to optimistically assure them, “Everything’s bound to turn out for the best!”

“I don’t know, Eppy…” Ringo objected, “He’s…”

“Give ‘im time, Ring!” Epstein interrupted with a dismissive wave of the hand, “The prescription meds ‘ave yet to show their full strength! It’ll kick in by show time, and if not, then he won’t perform. Either way, things should be all right.”

“Are ye’ sure that’s all it’ll take?” Paul asked; ever the doubtful one.

Eppy gazed at him in disbelief, “Paul, where is this coming from?” he asked, “Have ye’ lost your ability to trust that things will in fact pan out for the best?”

“It’s just…” Paul frowned and shook his head. Maybe he was overreacting a bit. John did seem better than he did over an hour ago… But…who was to say that what happened already couldn’t happen again? John was clearly still suffering beneath the weight of his illness and his current temperature though seemingly lower than before wasn’t entirely comforting.

“I don’t suppose ye’ feel the same way, Ritch?” Eppy asked, turning to Ringo who seemed beside himself in the impending situation.

“I--”

“Relax!” Eppy interrupted with jovial conviction, “Johnny’s a tough lad. ‘E’ll be all right. You’ll all be all right. Are you not the Beatles?”

“What?”

“Are you _not_ the Beatles?” Eppy repeated.

“I don’t see what this has to do with anything,” Paul muttered, fixing Eppy with an irritated glare.

“We’re _not_ the Beatles, anyhow,” Ringo responded, “We’re _‘alf_ of them.”

Eppy gazed at the shortest member of the band with only slight amusement, “A rather cheeky bunch ye’ are, as well,” he muttered, “All I’m saying is you’ve all beaten the odds before, ‘ave you not? It’s no accident that you’ve all reached the top. A little faith goes a long way, y’know.”

He motioned for Mal to follow him and proceeded to walk away right then as if his little speech was more than enough to convince both Beatles that they were overreacting.

“Keep an eye on John tonight,” Mal sternly advised both of them before taking off after Eppy.

“We will, Mal,” Ringo responded, more to himself.

“What a load of bollocks…” Paul muttered, staring with annoyance after Eppy, “Talk about not wanting to come to terms with reality.”

Ringo sighed for what seemed like the hundredth time within the very hour, “Well if Eppy’s not concerned then maybe we shouldn--”

“Eppy’s not a bloody doctor!” Paul broke in with adamant frustration.

“Just listen fer a moment!” Ringo counteracted brusquely, “Bloody ‘ell, Paul, what’s come over you?”

“Just talk, would ye’?” Paul snapped.

“All I’m saying is, if the man who’s blatantly arse over fucking elbows fer John doesn’t see this as a risk, then…maybe we shouldn’t be so concerned.”

“Don’t let ‘im pull the wool over yer eyes,” Paul muttered flatly, “It’s blatant he’s concerned. He’d just rather let on to the deceiving impression that everything’s okay and will continue to be okay. Moreover, he’s _still_ not a doctor…and in my eyes, neither is that stupid sod of a quack that supposedly gave John a once-over. If something ‘appens to John tonight, it’s on him and I’ll make sure he knows it!”

Ringo drew back, once again startled by the sudden escalation of Paul’s anger, “Well, let’s hope it doesn’t come down to that,” he whispered. That doctor wouldn’t have a chance in the face of Hurricane Paul. He took in a deep breath. This un-Paul-like behavior had gone on long enough, “What’s the matter with ye’, Macca?” he demanded suddenly.

“What do ye’ mean?”

“Where’s that positive outlook we’re so used to seeing from ye’ at times like this?” Ringo thoroughly explained, “You’ve been so uptight lately, it can’t be healthy. You’ve turned into a bit of a git, really.”

Paul began to cook up a sharp response in his head to throw back but his attempt was besieged by the sudden weight of the world, “I don’t know…” he muttered his tired gaze finding Ringo’s concerned blue eyes, “M’just stressed out I guess…and worried about John…”

“Well take it easy, mate. You’ll only end up ill, as well, and that won’t help a thing in the least bit. Yer not alone ‘ere in yer troubles, y’know.”

Paul managed a thin smile, “Where’d you pick up such words of wisdom, Rings?” he asked with a hint of amazement.

Ringo returned his smile, “I learned from the best, Macca. Promise you’ll keep a level ‘ead?”

Paul eased into a genuine nod, “Yeah, I promise I’ll do the best that I can.”

It was several drawn out additional minutes before John finally reemerged from his suite in an entirely different set of clothing. His hair, much dryer now, was less disheveled and his face lacked the intense flush it had first portrayed upon his waking up. Staring at him with a bit of increased skepticism, Paul had to wonder how long the guitarist had stood over the bathroom sink, splashing his cheeks with cold water to successfully bring down the hue to the gentle pink it currently displayed. He wasn’t fooling anyone with the façade he was bringing forth. Paul was sure of it. Even Eppy couldn’t pretend to be _this_ oblivious.

“How’s John feeling, mates?” George asked, coming up suddenly behind Paul and Ringo.

Startled, the both musicians turned to face him, “What ditch did ye’ drag yerself from, Geo? Paul demanded bluntly, “Where’ve ye’ been?”

“Decided to ring Pattie,” George shrugged, “Took longer than I thought it would.”

“Been meaning to give Mo a bell meself…” Ringo realized, feeling slightly ashamed that he’d been too distracted to do so by this hour. He glanced to Paul, “Have you talked to Jane yet this week?”

“We talked two days ago,” Paul replied after thinking back a moment.

Ringo nodded, “Well, that’s better than me…it’s been at least a week since I’ve talked to M--”

George rolled his eyes looking suddenly as impatient as he was beginning to feel, “Could ye’ idiots discuss yer woman problems on yer own time? I asked how John was!”

A troubled look, halted by Ringo’s provided distraction, proceeded to grace Paul’s delicate features once again, “You’d have to ask Lennon, himself,” he muttered, “I can only hope that he has enough sense not to go on tonight if he doesn’t feel he can handle it.”

“Fer starters, he looked like complete shite when I saw ‘im emerge from his room just now,” George revealed worriedly, “Did he still seem out of it when he awoke?”

Ringo shrugged, “No more than usual, but he’s bloody burning up still…I doubt he even knows what he’s recently been through…”

“Are either of ye’ gon’ tell him?” George questioned, brown eyes shifting between band mates.

“Not right away…” was Paul’s thoughtful response, “I’d rather not spring it on him either, should it…cause a relapse or something…”

Ringo nodded in agreement.

A blatant thought crossed Paul’s mind right then and he turned immediately to face George, “Ye’ didn’t let onto Pattie that John’s sick did ye’?”

“I uh…might’ve said something…” George stated slowly, the idea that it might’ve been the wrong thing to do surfacing within this mind, “But I didn’t go into detail! Only mentioned that he might’ve caught the flu from me.”

“Ye’ didn’t mention the high fever?”

George shook his head.

“Good…” Paul sagged slightly in relief, “I’m sure she’d waste no time letting Cyn know…and I’d rather her not ‘ave to worry about John just yet.”

“Cyn would probably tell Mimi, as well,” Ringo sighed, “And y’know how that goes. She’d probably _walk_ to New York just to demand what’s going on.”

“‘Asn’t his fever come down any?” George frowned, his eyes growing darker with utmost worry. Looking into them, Paul could easily make out his growing concerns for the impending show.

“A tad, maybe…” Paul muttered without conviction. He looked away before George could readily read his expression.

“Tonight should be bloody interesting, then,” George mumbled, heaving a sigh.

“Yer not telling us anything new, mate. Trust me,” Paul responded sullenly, “On top of everything, the stupid, stubborn git seems to think he’s capable of tricking everyone into believing he’s fine.”

“Typical manipulative John Lennon,” Ringo added with a bit of a chuckle in regards to the situation. Things were glum enough. He honestly didn’t know how else to react.

George shook his head, “John being John, ‘ey? Y’know this means we’ll ‘ave to watch ‘im more than ever now, right?”

Ringo nodded, still chuckling, “Don’t we know it.”

After regarding John with a bit of doubt mixed with concern in his eyes, Eppy resorted to a business-like frontage and gave the official order that it was time to leave. As the others started to obey, Paul defiantly ignored him and saddled up to John, a frown on his face. “Y’feeling all right?” he asked worriedly.

“I’m fine…” John assured him, seemingly even more coherent now than upon his initial revival, “Feel a bit queasy but…it wouldn’t be right if I didn’t before a big show, would it?”

His attempt at a quip made Paul smile and brought a bit of ease to his entire being. “How’re ye’ feeling, otherwise, Johnny?”

John shrugged, his sleepy gaze drifting beyond Paul at George and Ringo as they exited the suite, jumping forth at Eppy’s beck and call like good little Beatles.

“Not great, huh?” Paul translated, “Ye’ sure you’ll be all right fer tonight?”

“I think so…” John responded quietly, reaching into his coat pocket for some aspirin. The bottle rattled at the mercy of what sounded like one single pill.

Judging by how uncharacteristically subdued the guitarist remained in his presence; Paul could easily tell that his head was still hurting. “You don’t sound too convincing, Lennon…” he countered; his worry increasing at the revelation.

John unscrewed the cap from the bottle of aspirin and, as expected, one lone pill tumbled into the palm of his hand. He hastily dry-swallowed it and winced coughing slightly at the persistent irritation in his throat.

“Did ye’ finish that whole bottle?” Paul demanded in disbelief.

John nodded, pain gripping his face in the aftermath of the barely completed action.

Bloody hell. Did he now have to keep an eye on John for reasons entirely different in addition to everything else? Paul’s eyes were subject to utmost seriousness as he eyed his best friend, “Y’ should be careful ye’ don’t overdo it, John. You’ve taken a lot of other meds, as well and some of them don’t mix.”

John looked at him, his frown lengthening, “What difference does it make?” he mumbled miserably, “None of it’s done a thing t’help…”

“Maybe ye’ shouldn’t force yerself into performing tonight, then…” Paul stated with a bit of worry.

“I’ll be all right, Macca…” John sighed tiredly.

“Again, ye’ don’t sound convincing.”

“Well, what is it ye’ want from me then, Paul?” John snapped, his mounting frustrations finally breaking free, “Y’get upset when I tell ye’ what y’want t’hear, y’get upset when I don’t…”

Paul thought a bit before replying, “I want you to tell me the whole truth from here on out,” he stated calmly and carefully.

John’s tired eyes narrowed in ample suspicion, “Bloody ‘ell, stop with the riddles…What the _hell_ are ye’ on about, Macca?” he demanded irritably.

Growing increasingly serious, Paul proceeded to look his friend sternly in the eye, “From this moment on, Lennon, I want ye’ to tell me straight up if ye’ start to feel badly, understand? No more of this ‘ _I’m fine_ ’ rubbish. I _know_ yer not fine. You haven’t _been_ fine all day.”

John held his gaze, his previous irritation subsiding to fleeting half-amusement, “Yer not still on about when I fainted earlier, are ye’? Ye’ weren’t even there t’see it ‘appen!”

Paul didn’t soften his expression, “This isn’t a joke, John,” he chided harshly, “Do I ‘ave yer word or not?”

John briefly considered the brunt of his friend’s words before collapsing into a tired nod. “Scout’s honor,” he added, managing a somewhat genuine smile.

“Good.” Paul stated; finally feeling able to take the guitarist’s word for it, at least for as far as this portion of the night was concerned. “You’ve done _enough_ scaring us for one day. Believe me.”

John frowned, his growing apprehension showing visibly on his face, “What’s this about then, Paul?” he asked tentatively, slight, hesitant curiosity taking hold.

‘ _Oh nothing out of the ordinary…Just the fact that you unknowingly spent the last hour mumbling deliriously at a dangerously high temperature of 104… Nothing serious, really_ …’ Christ…how was he supposed to reveal such a serious and unnerving happening to someone so oblivious? Could John even handle it? Of course he could… He was John Lennon. In all truth and honesty though, Paul just wanted to block the whole thing out… maybe convince himself that the scary occurrence had just been a dream… a rather realistic dream but still a dream, nonetheless. Wishful thinking…

“Well, what is it, then?” John continued to press; his voice rasping in persistent hoarseness, “Yer not exactly the most graceful liar, so don’t try any tricks.”

 _It wouldn’t be right to keep such a thing hidden, would it_? Paul realized. It would be downright immoral on his part. It was every bit John’s business to know what was going on with him and he should be the one to tell him while the opportunity presented itself…even if it meant having to relive the frightening turn of events himself. “I--” he began, faltering almost immediately. _Why was this so bleeding hard_?

“Bloody ‘ell, out with it, Macca!” John grumbled with rising impatience, “I’ll find out anyway, so ye’ might as well do yerself a favor and tell me.”

 _It was John. That’s why. Strong, ever-present, untamed, brazen John Lennon_. None of this seemed remotely real. ‘ _Bloody hell, get on with it, McCartney_! _You’re acting like John’s dying or something_!!’ Paul heaved a sigh. “Y-you were really out of it for a bit…” he reluctantly spilled, the dam holding back his fears giving way, “Delirious…You bloody scared us, John! We had to bring that doctor around again and he injected you with something that he said would bring yer temperature down which at that point was practically at 104!! I for one thought you’d end up in the hospital. Had it been up to Ringo, ye’ would’ve!”

John shook his head in disbelief, wincing a bit at the amount of pain the action stirred up within it, “I’m sure I’d remember seeing that loony git again,” he stated seriously, “Yer having me on, Paul…” He frowned, feeling suddenly unsure of himself, “…aren’t ye’?”

“You didn’t even recognize him you were so out of it,” Paul revealed, the repressed memory threatening further to uncover his concealed emotions, “God, you were scary. You looked at him but right through him it seemed. And you didn’t even acknowledge the rest of us.”

“104, huh?” John mused aloud, “…Bloody ‘ell…” What the fuck had he gone off and caught then? Certainly not a cold… A flu then? This didn’t seem like any flu he had ever had…

Paul eased into a nod, “You were rightly burning up, John!”

John blinked, unsure of how to handle the unnerving revelation Paul was choosing to unload upon him. It didn’t seem right…didn’t seem real in the least bit… “How long was I out?” he dared to ask, his voice coming out oddly feeble like a child’s. He mind held no concept of time whatsoever in regards to this foreign situation… He somehow feared the answer he’d receive…

“Long enough…” Paul mumbled, his gaze skirting evasively away from John’s, “Over an hour, really…though there’s no telling how long you had begun to deteriorate beforehand.”

John scrubbed absently at his forehead, “…It’s no wonder I bloody feel like shit, then…” he croaked halfheartedly. He coughed hoarsely and a hand scrambled for his throat which he proceeded to rub in a soothing manner. His eyes watered immensely all the while as his body attempted to handle the amount of pain it was suddenly presented with. He grimaced, feeling lightheaded all of a sudden. Stumbling somewhat clumsily, he found the nearest wall and eased up against it for much needed support.

“You all right?” Paul frowned, worriedly.

Wiping a bit at his eyes, John nodded, “S’bit woozy, really…” Long top eyelashes joined bottom eyelashes as he attempted to fend off the annoying, recurring feeling. Bloody hell, if this kept up, he’d soon be known as John Lennon the drunken Beatle…

Frowning still, Paul placed a hand again to John’s forehead right then, leaving it for a few seconds before removing it at the disclosure that he felt thankfully slightly cooler than even the last time he’d checked. He was still very warm but _nothing_ compared to how hot he’d felt earlier. “Yer still running a bit of a fever but yer nowhere near where you were,” he revealed with a bit of relief present.

John was at a loss, “Christ…I don’t…I don’t remember anything after taking me meds,” he concluded, his eyes widening in growing trepidation, “Eppy, I think was handing them to me…”

Paul nodded, “You gave us quite the scare, Johnny.”

John frowned. If all that Paul had said had been true, then why couldn’t he bloody well remember any of it? _Should_ he be able to remember such a thing? It frightened him beyond belief that something so serious had overcome him without his knowing. What if he hadn’t been able to overcome this delirium? What if it happened again? Would he have any way of knowing about it ahead of time? Would he die then? ‘ _No, no, shut up with that, y’stupid sod… Christ, it’s no wonder yer bloody off yer rocker_ …’ Don’t think about it…Ignore it… Forget drunken Beatle. _Barmy_ Beatle was more like it…

“You just about made Eppy cry with worry!” Paul went on in the absence of John’s response, his words nearly disappearing completely in the midst of jumbled up thoughts.

With a slight, painful shake of the head, John forcefully barricaded his mind in attempt to keep it from drowning him in the midst of any more worrisome thoughts. The irrepressible look of unease he’d unwittingly allowed to grace his face was quickly masked with one of his classic John Lennon smirks, “Somehow I’m not surprised…” he murmured finally, turning away to avoid his friend’s gaze. He could sense Paul looking at him through the corner of his eye and was under the immediate impression that the bassist had, in his annoyingly perceptive ways, managed to catch him in the formation of yet another one of his defensive walls. What the hell else was new? Nevertheless, it was time for a subject change. “What about you, Macca?” he stated without warning in attempt to distract him from whatever doubts he was clinging to, “Did I get ye’ to cry?” A familiar twinkle of mischief was present in his eye as he turned again to face the musician.

Paul blinked in utter surprise before narrowing his eyes on the guitarist in escalating confusion, “What?”

“Did ye’ cry?” John repeated lightly, “Simple question.”

“No!” Paul snapped, “Why would I?”

“I…I…uh…” John faltered and frowned, unable to promptly weave up something clever or remember what he was even getting at in the first place, “I…don’t rightly know…” he admitted gracelessly. His brain, seemingly gift wrapped in endless layers of cotton, wasn’t anywhere near its usual level of wit. Christ, it was as though he was unbecoming who he was supposed to be. Was that possible? Could one just one day cease to be one’s self? Was he no longer John Lennon, the smart and witty Beatle? John Lennon without wit was like Paul McCartney without charm…what was he if he wasn’t witty? Stupid? Barmy? Bloody hell, it was only a matter of time before he’d find himself labeled one or the other or… _both_. The mere thought along with the forced attempt to make sense of it all made his head hurt worse than it already was…or maybe it was his stupid illness that was doing so…

He just wanted to stop being sick already…especially after learning what a bleeding hassle he’d been to everyone as of late. If he’d thought he’d been under everyone’s insufferable microscope to begin with, it was all bound to worsen tenfold now. As far as he knew, everyone’s perception of him was the same. John Winston Lennon was a downright barmy, feverish, fainting mess that needed special care. Bloody hell things couldn’t get any worse, could they? Could they?

Paul shot John finally with a questioning look in regard to his recent out of character slip-up. He’d been half-expecting to be faced abruptly with some witty, over extravagant, Lennon-like creation of words. The fact that John had failed at his own game astounded him. Concerned him even, “You sure you’ll be all right tonight?” he asked; anxiously drawing in John’s resigned appearance with worried eyes.

John nodded distractedly, eager once again to change the subject. “Let’s just go before Eppy decides to find replacements fer both our arses… He would, y’know…”

“Mine, more likely…” Paul mused aloud, glancing to his watch, “He loves ye’ too much, Johnny-boy!”

John smirked, but said nothing, his brain failing yet again to form wit…

Paul frowned. There were hundreds of smug and arrogant comments that John could easily have come up with. The guitarist wasn’t acting like himself one bit, he realized; feeling a bit unnerved at the revelation. He was alarmingly out of it and he was being too bloody quiet for his liking. If something aside from his ailment was bothering him, Paul would have no real way of drawing it from him. John had his walls up and in place and there was no way into that complex mind of his without any additional prying. It was possible John was just feeling poorly and the bassist was jumping to conclusions as usual. But as good as he was at conclusion jumping; he couldn’t convince himself that such a title readily applied here. There was something else bothering Lennon and whatever it was, was as a result successfully depressing and frightening the hell out of the guitarist… He could see the resulting apprehension so clearly within his tired eyes…and what concerned him, overall, was that John, as fearless as he often portrayed himself, wasn’t easily ever visibly frightened…not in the many years that he’d known him.

“Well, ‘ere ye’ two are!” Mal abruptly appeared at the doorway, a disapproving look on his face as he reproachfully regarded both straggling Beatles, “I thought something ‘ad ‘appened!”

John scoffed bitterly in the face of Mal’s concerns, “I don’t suppose ye’ assumed I went all barmy again, did ye’? Or maybe ye’ thought I fainted…”

Mal’s gaze found John and he narrowed his eyes on him in scrutiny, “I should hope you’ve regained some of yer strength,” he stated quickly, not giving in to whatever it was the guitarist was readily getting at, “The fans are right cracked tonight it seems and I don’t want them overwhelming ye’.”

Everything’s hunky-bloody-dory, love…” John smirked, “I feel fan-fucking-tastic…rather brilliant, really. Christ, I’m not gonna shatter, y’know…”

Mal arched an eyebrow at him in slight amusement, “Is that so?”

“His fever’s coming down, I think,” Paul told Mal who proceeded to check for himself.

“He is a bit cooler,” Mal confirmed, “Eppy’ll be glad to know. Maybe he’ll be able to perform after all!”

“ _Of course_ I’ll be able to perform!” John stated with an outward portrayal of unconcern, “I’m fine _now_ , aren’t I? Did I not just confirm that?” There was a slight quaver of uncertainty present in his voice that Mal didn’t seem to catch. Paul did, however, and the bassist had to wonder if John was just saying such things in desperate attempt to convince not just everyone else that everything was all right, but _himself_ as well. He’d have to call John out on it a bit later if he remembered to do so, preferably at a time when no one else was around. Moreover, with the way the guitarist was beginning to look, it was probably best not to do so right then. Alarmingly, he still looked as though he could keel over at any given moment.

“Stop fannying around then and come ‘ead, would ye’?” Mal sighed, his impatience overriding the majority of his still present concern, “There’s no time to waste!! Ira’s waiting in the elevator to escort you to the limo.” He filed further into the room and hurriedly ushered the two musicians towards the doorway.

John swayed as the hallway air hit them and Mal, grabbing him with lightning-like reflexes, held him up, “Feeling fan-fucking-tastic, are ye’?” he muttered mockingly in the guitarist’s ear.

“Tired…” John muttered with a sheepish laugh. A hoarse string of dizzying coughs proceeded to escape him and he sagged even more beneath his own weight.

Mal frowned down at him, “Ye’ sure yer up fer this, John? Because if yer not, I suggest ye’ say so now. I’m not about t’carry ye’ out of ‘ere.”

“Y’could ye’ know,” John quipped gazing up at him with a tired lopsided smirk, “What’re ye’? Ten feet tall?”

“More like meters,” Paul added teasingly with a laugh.

Mal heaved an exasperated sigh.

John’s grin faded. “‘M’fine…I’m all right, Mal…” he stubbornly assured their road manager. Gathering up what was left of his strength; he eased out of Mal’s supportive grip and attempted to stand on his own, his face paling dramatically with the effort, “See?” he flashed a weak grin.

Paul shook his head in disapproval but said nothing.

“Yer rather drugged, aren’t ye’, Lennon?” Mal realized, allowing his apprehension to show in the form of a frown, “Very well, Lennon. Russian roulette it is. For your sake, ye’ better ‘ave a clue of what yer getting yerself into.”

John started to nod, but dizziness gripped him at the wrong time and he stumbled over the bottom doorframe. “Bloody ‘ell, Lennon!” Mal growled before reaching out to grab his arm to keep him from falling, “I think we should all be grey at your expense before the night is up!”

John frowned in embarrassment coming to the realization that if he was to be of any use that night, he’d best settle for a kip before the show. “Will I be able t’sleep on the way?” he asked faintly, gazing up with hope at Mal as they exited the suite, “I feel rather off-color… still…”

“I think ye’ feel _more_ than off-color, at any rate,” Mal commented, glaring sharply at him.

Under regular circumstances, a typical ride to a particular performance destination would consist of additional planning in regards to the band’s upcoming show routine. Eppy and Mal would require each Beatle’s full and undivided attention as they repetitively went over everything that was to be expected of them.

“I’m sure Eppy’ll allow it just this once, Johnny.” Mal quickly responded as the elevator loomed into view, “In fact, I’d rather you did try and get some sleep. You’re still rather feverish. A bit too feverish still for me liking.”

A heavy shadow crept into John’s wearied eyes and he frowned, unhappy with the revelation.

“ _But_ , we ‘ave until the curtains go up to pass the final judgment.” Mal added immediately after witnessing the guitarist’s resulting look of dejectedness in reaction to his words.

John wasn’t eased by Mal’s attempt of reassurance. Nonetheless, he nodded, knowing full well, there was nothing else he could do.

“Let’s chivy along then, ye’ two,” Mal continued, guiding them urgently from behind, “It looks like rain out there and I’m not in favor of either of ye’ getting wet.”

“I think I should _want_ toget wet, y’know…” John murmured sullenly, “I’m so bloody hot, I feel it would do me good…”

“Being out in the rain is the last thing either of ye’ need, Lennon,” Mal gravely advised as he channeled the remaining half of the Beatles into the awaiting elevator, “With the condition you’re already in, I fear you’d easily catch yer death! Your temperature is very capable of skyrocketing without warning as it is. And the last thing we need in addition to that is for Paul to catch a chill as well.”

“Great…” John mumbled miserably, “Let’s all hide our ‘eads from a bit of rain. England would be right proud…”

Paul smirked, “C’mon, Lennon,” he soothed, placing an arm affectionately around his shoulder as the elevator doors closed sealing them off from the hotel hallway of their floor, “Let’s just try to get ye’ through this night in one piece.”

As Ira moved to press the correct buttons to bring them to the lowest level, the despondent guitarist found himself in the midst of a husky rendition of his own tune, “If the rain comes, they run and hide their heads. They might as well be dead. If the rain comes…. If the raaiiiiiiiin comes…”

The elevator began its descent, and John resultantly groaned, closing his eyes against the persistent surge of nausea churning within his stomach. “Can’t wait fer this bloody thing to end,” he muttered wearily, leaning slightly against Paul, “Feel like fucking crap…”

“Yeah well, if it’s any comfort to ye’, y’don’t look so good either,” Paul frowned, “Don’t worry though, Johnny. If ye’ feel the need to throw up, I’ll gladly guide you to a corner of the elevator and hold yer hair back fer ye’.” It was meant as a slight tease but there was every bit as much truth embedded within the statement as John did look decidedly green at the moment.

“Raaaaaaaiiiiiiiiiiiinnn, I don’t mind…. Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinnnneee, the weather’s fine…” John murmured somewhat melodically; his voice barely above a whisper. He grew gradually heavier against Paul’s shoulder, and he began to realize right then that the lethargic guitarist was beginning to fall asleep leaning against him. Caught in the conflict of whether to wake him abruptly or let him rest a moment, Paul decided with the latter. With the show looming around the corner, every bit of shuteye counted…even if it was achieved…standing up…


	12. Rain

The first thing Paul noticed when he emerged through the hotel double doors was how dramatically the outside weather had changed since their initial arrival. The entire atmosphere, saturated with a thick, unbearable humidity, was even heavier now and there was an undeniable feeling of utmost suspense within it. It was as though the entire world was holding its breath in anticipation; awaiting something, larger than life itself, to take place. The calm before the storm, so to speak.

Beautifully dark, ominous clouds held the western sky captive, their towering, turbulent, sun-bathed tops achieving great heights as they reached eagerly for the unsuspecting, descending sun. Paul gazed longingly at them, marveling with awe at the perfect imperfections situated within various shades of blues, purples, and grays. Strained rays of the setting sun illuminated their outer edges, giving them each a majestic appearance. Even the darkest clouds could have a silver lining it seemed… It was incredible how nature could so easily present itself so brilliantly even while at its most intimidating.

“You can cloud watch on yer own time, McCartney!” Mal interrupted hastily; clearly unhappy with the snail’s pace both musicians were moving at in the face of rapidly waning time, “We’re behind schedule as it is, becoming more so by the minute!”

 _Speaking of intimidating_ … Paul’s resulting frown found Mal’s face who was glaring at both him and John as though willing lightning to strike them down simultaneously. It was blatant that stress had taken hold of him like a heavy, wet veil and with the recent given circumstances, he couldn’t be blamed, either. At this point, it was safe to say that everyone was cracking or beginning to crack beneath the pressures beheld by the rapidly approaching evening. Paul sighed. He didn’t even want to begin to wonder what Eppy would be like once they entered the limo.

“Paul McCartney, John Lennon, over here!” someone suddenly squealed, abruptly drawing Paul from his thoughts. He turned and grinned politely at the fan responsible, offering a small wave before turning his attention to the limo that loomed in front of them. A strong wind, carrying a hint of moisture with it from the incoming storm, blew rather suddenly tossing his hair about and he glanced with curiosity at John. The ailing guitarist was quietly trudging alongside him, every additional step he took; looking like it was harder than the last. He barely acknowledged the screaming fans around him, barely even seemed aware of his surroundings, for that matter. That in and of itself, blatantly spelled out the fact that the poor bloke was feeling significantly under the weather. Thankfully, they were almost at the limo. He could only hope that John would be able to sleep once they got in. He needed every bit he could get.

The sound of a limo door opening drew Paul from his reverie and he glanced ahead again, noting in surprise the significantly decreased distance between him and the limo. Ira stood beside the open door, gazing expectantly at both him and John, his expression as it often was while in the midst of his job, unreadable. Paul smiled in his direction before turning back again to briefly check on John’s status.

The guitarist had emerged from his prolonged daze and was glancing despondently at the limo, his eyes dark like the approaching storm clouds and near equally weighed by feelings of dread. Paul instantly recognized the look on his face, as rare as it was. Desolation. He’d seen it enough over the years to know that it sometimes could take a strong enough hold within the guitarist to concern just about everyone he was in constant contact with. Paul impulsively waved a hand in his face successfully drawing his attention to him, “Hey, you all right?” he mouthed.

John’s face reflected all out unease, his frazzled gaze speaking volumes to the bassist as he turned to regard him. He didn’t need to speak. Paul already knew. The guitarist was having terrible second thoughts about what he was getting into.

It baffled just about everyone how much the Beatles, Paul and John in particular, could say amongst each other without the actual use of words. It was as though they had developed and mastered a language all their own, capable of rivaling that of fabled telepathy. In a way, they had.

Paul frowned momentarily. Though John was often subject to pre-show jitters and random fits of depression, this seemed entirely different. It went to show just how sick and out of his element he had to be feeling. Nevertheless, Paul flashed John an assuring smile. ‘ _It’ll be all right, Johnny_ …’ he projected forth in just the simple gesture, ‘ _It’ll all be all right_ …’

Almost as quickly as it had visibly settled in, all traces of apprehension vanished from view and were hastily replaced with a typical guarded look of wearied cynicism. The guitarist’s eyes, increasingly worn from the extreme trials of the day, purged themselves characteristically of all readable emotion and his face relaxed in a trademark careless Lennon-like manner. Just as quickly as they’d been lowered, the infamous Lennon walls were back up and in place.

“Well, what are ye’ waiting for, the bloody New Year?” Eppy barked impatiently and hastily from inside the limo succeeding in startling both Beatles, “Come ‘ead, would ye’?”

“Here ye’ go, lads,” Ira stated, gesturing hurriedly towards the open limo door. He gazed at the two remaining members of the band, his eyes lingering anxiously on John before they resiliently resumed their outward portrayal of reserved formality and he slipped back into professional security mode. Somewhere in the distance, thunder could be heard, rumbling its deep low warning that more or less heralded the arrival of the approaching storm.

“Ta, Ira,” Mal gratefully stated, thanking the head security guard with an appreciative smile.

Ira momentarily managed a pleased nod of acknowledgement before stepping aside and allowing for both John and Paul to clamber into the limo. Mal, as usual, was the last to file in, shutting the door soundly behind him before hurriedly giving the driver the signal that they could now begin departure.

As expected, Eppy didn’t waste a second displaying his displeasure in regards to John and Paul’s inconsiderate lack of punctuality. The two were barely seated before he started in on them, his aggravation unleashing like the rain-drenched winds of a hurricane, “Well, it’s about bloody time!” he barked in ample frustration. Frantically peeling back a sleeve, he thrust his watch in the faces of both musicians, both of them flinching in startled surprise, “ _Ten_ minutes. Ten _irreplaceable_ minutes wasted because of you!! That’s _ten_ minutes of preparation you won’t have once we get to where we’re going! _Ten_ minutes of additional rest, _Lennon_ ,” he shifted his gaze solely to the bleary-eyed guitarist, “you won’t have to catch up on, prior to your performance… Should you _even_ be allowed to perform at this bloody rate.”

Paul cast a furtive glance beyond Eppy at the remaining lucky half of the band not in the direct line of fire. George and Ringo held their gazes out the window in the complete opposite direction, avoiding eye contact at all costs as if afraid that Eppy would resultantly find a reason to start up with one of them. Paul heaved a sigh and returned his attention back to Eppy. He knew from experience that if both he and John remained quiet and tried to look apologetic in the face of Eppy’s wrath, this would all be over soon enough. He aimed a sidelong glance at his partner in crime. ‘ _Please keep quiet, John_ ,’ he pleaded inwardly. The guitarist was already getting that restless, heated look in his eye which he proceeded to skillfully mask beneath an outward projection of indifference. Few could readily see it, but to Paul it was as plain as day. John Lennon; feeling clearly knackered, on edge, drugged, and off-color, wasn’t about to keep quiet.

“Aren’t I being punished enough as it is?” he hoarsely snapped as anticipated, eyeing Eppy back with blatant frustration, “Christ, ye’ sound like me bloody father the way yer carryin’ on. Just what do ye’ think you’ll accomplish yelling all the time? I feel like bloody ‘ell as it is and yer making it all worse!!”

Both Ringo and George jumped simultaneously in their seats and turned to look at John in surprise. Paul probably would’ve mirrored their startled reactions himself, had he not already been anticipating the outburst. It almost made him want to smile. As lousy as John was feeling, it was good to know that he wasn’t feeling too much unlike himself to openly display his anger when he felt it to be necessary.

Eppy fell silent, countering the musician’s words with a stern glare. It became obvious after a while of no response that he’d chosen to bite his tongue for the sole purpose of preventing things from escalating beyond control as they would, otherwise. As far as Eppy was concerned, things were chaotic enough as they were, and he wouldn’t want to deal with any unnecessary consequences. “Just be quiet and go to sleep, then, will ye’, Lennon?” was his aggravated, delayed reply.

John smirked in smug satisfaction thinking he’d won the last word and leaning his head back against his seat, closed his eyes. As had been the case numerous times throughout the day, he fell asleep in what seemed like an unnerving matter of minutes.

“Now, onto the show,” Eppy muttered, turning his attention to the three remaining Beatles as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. As Eppy rattled on about the upcoming show’s setup and whatnot, Ringo began a game of cards to help pass the time. Paul joined him but George declined, deciding he was more interested in taking in what he could of New York’s exterior while he still could. Finally, he’d gotten his window seat…unfortunately; the timing wasn’t the best as the sunlight was rapidly fading with the continual approaching of storm clouds.

Time as it normally would before a show, flew by as though someone had manually chosen to turn the hands of every clock forward several minutes at a time. Before the Beatles knew it, they were bearing down on their destination, crowds of people scattering this way and that at the beckoning of security guards everywhere. The setup here was similar as it had been at the hotel. Barriers lined a pathway, each individual segment holding back large masses of people. George drew in a deep breath as he looked on. This was _all_ bound to get very interesting.

The limo pulled up to the curb and within seconds after they’d parked alongside it, it began to pour. Heavy, driving sheets of rain fell to the earth like mini daggers on a mission. The mob of fans took on sudden vibrant splashes of random color like tame fireworks as umbrellas opened up everywhere. These fans were in it for the long haul it seemed.

John jolted awake as a particularly loud rumble of thunder shook the limo and he glanced about him in a fit of disorientation before succumbing into a ragged bout of coughing.

“Oi, that’s a nasty cough ye’ got there, John,” Ringo acknowledged, gazing in his direction from his hand of cards, “Y’sure you’ll be all right tonight?”

John nodded groggily; hands scrambling hastily for his temples left throbbing profoundly in the aftermath of his coughing fit. Jesus Christ, what would it take to shake such a stubborn thing? A flicker of pain flashed across his face as he attempted to ease the pressure that seemed to push out from the insides of his head. His neck and upper spine throbbed with the effort, choosing that very moment to simultaneously plead their cases.

“How’re ye’ doing?” Mal demanded, eyeing him critically with deep concern.

John shrugged, struggling to ignore the new and residual ache in his neck, aggravated by the action. That too was quickly becoming a nuisance. It was as though someone had attempted to strangle him at some point during the day. His neck and even the center of his upper back felt oddly bruised and strained as if he’d managed to sleep on it wrong, “‘M’ all right…” he managed after a while, his voice hoarse with sleep and illness.

“Y’sure?” Mal asked, his stern eyes taking in John’s appearance. His flush had lessened dramatically but he still looked unbearably knackered.

John nodded, seemingly trapped in a sluggish haze.

Mal pressed a hand to his forehead to see for himself. The sigh of relief he emitted proved assuring for the limo’s inhabitants, “Your temperature’s come down even more!” he revealed.

“Is it gone?” George asked with a bit of hope.

“Not quite but I think I can safely say that he’s no longer burning up, so to speak.”

“Wonderful timing, Johnny!” Eppy stated, flashing a grin, “That’s m’boy! Resilient as always!”

A security guard tapped on the window right then to claim both managers’ attention and both Mal and Eppy without so much more a word, escaped out the limo door their actions similar to that of that morning.

“Are you really feeling okay?” Paul asked, turning his attention back to John once the door had closed.

“A bit…” John confirmed with a weak, faltering grin, “Me ‘ead still hurts but I’m not so bloody hot anymore. Just annoyingly knackered…” He decided not to mention the unrelenting ache in his neck. As far as he was concerned, it was just another stupid symptom destined to make him much more miserable than he already felt.

Paul smiled, “Well, yer not out of the woods yet, Johnny, but it’s good to see yer feeling at least a bit better!”

“Welcome back, John!” Ringo gushed, setting his cards down and throwing his arms tightly around the guitarist as though he’d just come back from a long holiday.

“Get off me!” John protested, fighting back only slightly, “Yer trying to get sick or something?”

“It’s yer turn as well, Ring,” Paul impatiently pointed out, “Y’plan on taking it or would ye’ rather have John off?”

Tossing a smirk in Paul’s direction, Ringo made a move to retrieve his cards from their temporary resting place, “Y’just want me to forfeit because yer losing!”

“ _No_ , I want ye’ to shut yer gob and take yer turn like yer bloody well supposed to!”

“Sounds jealous,” George stated with a wry smirk, his gaze moving finally from the window to Ringo, “Think Paulie ‘ere, wants ye’ all to his lonesome, Rings.”

“Well, that’s a right shame, although I am rather irresistible,” Ringo quipped slyly, “However, I _specifically_ told ‘im to wait till we got back to the hotel _before_ we engaged in any slap and tickle!”

George laughed, “Paul never could take instruction, well,” he teased, “Although he thinks he is, he not quite the sharpest knife in the drawer,”

It was Ringo’s turn to laugh, “Not by a long shot, son!! _John_ isn’t even the sharpest knife in this drawer so how the bloody ‘ell could it be _Paul_?”

“Would ye’ play, already?” Paul snapped, growing more irritable by the moment.

Ringo ignored him, waist-deep in the midst of his usual shenanigans, “I keep me smarts hidden, I do!! And then when ye’ least expect it, I _spring it on ye’_!!” He jumped animatedly at George as the latter of his words tumbled from his mouth.

George raised an eyebrow, “ _So_ hidden, ye’ can’t even see ‘em anymore, in fact,” he smirked smoothly.

“Y’blokes need hobbies,” Paul muttered, “Can someone play for chrissakes??!”

“Don’t get yer knickers twisted,” Ringo laughed, “I’m going, Macca! You’ll be right sorry too once I take me turn. They don’t call me the smart Beatle fer nothing, y’know!!

“They _don’t_ call ye’ the smart Beatle _at all_!” Paul and George chorused in unison.

“Not yet!!” Ringo quipped, “Once the press is done being captivated by Lennon’s supposed wit, they will. Johnny’ll tell ye’ just the same. Right John?”

Having been staring out the window in a concentrated effort to drown out the increasingly annoying chatter of his band mates, John found himself nearly jumping from his skin as Ringo’s incessant prodding finally managed to reach his throbbing eardrums, “ _What_?” he snapped.

“Just say _right_!”

“ _Right_ sorry sap, ye’ are if ye’ think I’m about to conform to whatever load of bollocks yer weaving up,” John responded tiredly before taking his eyes away from him and refocusing them back out the window. Groaning quietly, he rubbed absently at the back of his neck and closed his eyes allowing his head to rest upon the cool glass of the window.

Ringo frowned, “Sure y’feel all right enough fer tonight, Lennon?”

John nodded, eyes still closed.

“ _Play_!!” Paul barked.

John spoke without opening his eyes, “Ye’ can always tell when Paulie’s losing. ‘E get’s all huffy…” he stated offhandedly.

“I do not!” Paul growled, glaring at John.

“And whad’ye call this behavior, then?” George teased.

“Bloody sod off!”

“Someone’s got their knickers on too tight,” Ringo sang playfully, allowing his eyes off John finally.

“I’ve got a fist ‘ere with yer name on it, Starr,” Paul threatened.

“Go easy on ‘im, Macca, ye’ could break ‘im with yer pinky alone,” John quipped, sitting up finally with an exaggerated stretch. After grimacing in an instance of pain, he allowed a lazy smirk in Ringo’s direction.

“Yer lucky I’m in too good a mood to be bothered by yer attacks on me size, Lennon…” Ringo retaliated, “I’ve beaten Paul _twice_ already and I’m about to wrap up a third win!”

“Well, I don’t feel very lucky…” John sighed, rubbing again at the back of his neck with a frown. It was possible he might have to ice the pain. Maybe ice his head while he was at it.

“Quite the bug you’ve managed to pick up, John,” George commented unexpectedly, eyeing him with slight concern, “I’ve always known that when ye’ get sick, ye’ _get_ sick but…I’ve never seen anyone fall so ill so fast…Even I didn’t fall so hard. The whole thing’s a bit eerie…”

“Such words of comfort, Geo,” John muttered flatly, “Remind me never to come to ye’ when I’m feeling particularly down.”

George shrugged, “You of all people should be able to take in utmost honesty seeing as ye’ dish it out so much.”

John’s eyes widened in fleeting surprise before his tongue redeveloped its ability to make words, “Bloody ‘ell, it seems I’ve taught ye’ well!”

“That rhymed!” Ringo pointed out without looking up from his and Paul’s card game.

“Ringo, ever the bringer of useless information,” John muttered. Leaning his head back again, he ground the palms of his hands into his eyes and blinked several times. The nonstop burning and aching within them was more than beginning to drive him mad by this point.

“I like to think of meself as a bit more than that, Lennon,” Ringo scoffed as Paul in a fit of frustration and defeat threw his cards down to the portion of the seat they’d been using as a table, “Currently, I’m _also_ the conqueror of Paul’s pathetic arse!”

“You forgot to mention gloating bastard,” Paul added petulantly.

“Another game, Paulie?” Ringo questioned, eyeing the bassist with dancing eyes.

“Clear off it, y’bloody git!” Paul snarled childishly, “And quit yer gloating. It’s unbecoming.”

“I’ll quit me gloating when y’quit yer losing, _McCartney_!”

John arched an eyebrow in mild interest, “Ye’ both should be thankful I’m not feeling well. Had I been playing, neither of y’sods would be gloating.”

“Oh really, is that right?” Paul grumbled, “And I don’t suppose y’believe _you’d_ be the one t’beat us? Care t’put yer money where yer mouth is?”

John regarded him with utmost cynicism present behind faded eyes, “What part of ‘ _I’m not feeling well_ ’ don’t ye’ understand, _Einstein_?”

“ _As soon_ as ye’ start feeling better, I’m challenging you to a game of poker!” Paul stated confidently, “You too, Rings!! What do ye’ say?”

“I’m in,” Ringo stated automatically.

The boredom present in John’s face prevailed, “That’s big talk from a bloke who just saw himself through three straight losses courtesy of _Ringo_!”

“Are ye’ in or not?” Paul challenged.

John brought a hand to his forehead and pressed down in a failed attempt to keep the seemingly still intensifying ache at bay. “If ye’ fancy another loss, love, then, yes,” he responded, grinning in slight amusement at Paul’s indignant reaction.

“The only thing I fancy is watching ye’ cry when--”

“I hope we can go in soon,” Ringo interrupted loudly getting annoyed with the typical argument that would only continue to escalate between his two band mates, “If I don’t shake me snake soon, I’m gonna burst! First place I’m off to is the loo.”

“What _snake_?” John questioned wryly, turning to him with a slight wince, “I think ye’ rather mean worm…No way yer big enough to be hiding a snake in those trousers of yers…”

George laughed, “M’thoughts exactly!”

Ringo pouted, “Well in case ye’ bloody sods ‘aven’t yet heard me latest motto, it’s as follows. ‘Big things _often_ come in small packages!”

John arched an eyebrow, a flicker of pain fleetingly overtaking him, “Where’d ye’ dig that up?”

“Me mind,” Ringo recited proudly, “Yer not the only one with smarts now are ye’? Pretty soon they’ll be calling _me_ the smart Beatle!”

“Or the _annoying_ Beatle if they don’t already…” John muttered jadedly, “ _Christ_ , sod the ‘ell off, would ye’?” He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, draping an arm across his aching forehead. Bloody headache/neckache whatever the hell it was just wouldn’t leave him alone. With the way the thing was currently throbbing sharply, it was no wonder he still felt off despite the declination of his fever… He might have to request an ice pack later…and some more aspirin. “Anyone know the record fer the world’s longest ongoing ‘eadache?” he wondered aloud after a while of prolonged silence.

“Nope,” George responded after only a small moment of thought, “Why?”

“M’just wondering…” John murmured absentmindedly.

Paul allowed his eyes to sweep his friend’s abnormally submissive face. His jaw was set, quivering ever so slightly in a controlled effort to deal with the pain he was clearly trying to hide. Blimey, could his head _still_ be bothering him that badly? It just didn’t seem normal. “You all right?” he asked worriedly.

“Fucking ‘ead…” John sighed glumly, “Think it’s set on a bloody record or something to that effect…”

“I’m not so sure you should go on tonight, John,” Paul stated with sudden adamancy, “Yer fever may be down but it’s not gone and clearly you’re not feeling much better, worse even…I don’t think--”

“Come off it, McCartney…I’ll be fine…”

Paul opened his mouth in surefire retaliation, but was abruptly interrupted as the command to exit beat him to the punch. John pushed past him and followed Ringo out the limo door, George behind him. Paul was the last to exit and did so, grumbling to himself in frustration over Lennon and his persistently maddening antics. Bloody hell it was bound to be a long night. He was sure of it.


	13. Helter Skelter

John’s face literally felt as though it was melting off with the falling rain. The screams, the yelps, the cries of excitement, each audible assault seemed to take a piece of him with it as it rocketed through the wet air. His ears felt as though they were bleeding and his eyes, blinded by the repetitive flashes of numerous cameras in the foggy atmosphere, could barely even begin to focus on his surroundings. As painful as it was to admit, had he not had George behind him steadily moving him along, he easily could’ve disappeared into the chaotic sea of turmoil that enclosed them.

Doubts of uncertainty had begun to claim the guitarist recently too and he vaguely felt as though his impulsive decision to go ahead with this show wasn’t the brightest move on his behalf, nor the band’s behalf, for that matter. He was sick. _Bloody hell_ , he was sick… So what on earth was he _doing_ out here in the pouring rain? Trying to prove a point? Did he wish to endanger himself for the sake of this point, whatever the hell it even was? No of course not… But he _had_ to go on with it now. He couldn’t let the band down. Couldn’t _afford_ to let Eppy _or_ Mal down… Not now… Not at this point. He’d caused enough chaos and concern on this day alone to last him close to if not all of the rest of his life. Been enough of a burden. He would simply have to suck it up and bloody well grin and bear it as fake as it all felt. And while he was at it, he would have to hope that he could muddle through to the end without any additional drawbacks. John wanted desperately to believe that it was only a matter of time before he’d finally begin to feel better. His fever _had_ dropped significantly which meant things _had_ to be getting better. Weren’t they, though? Not fast enough, his exhausted mind threatened to reveal… And now he could add exposure to heavy, driving rain to top it all off. Just whose bloody, _ingenious_ idea was it to leave the umbrellas back at the hotel, anyway? Surely whoever it was would be getting an earful from him when he felt clearheaded enough to get around to it…

Though the majority of John’s bodily aches and pains had subsided somewhat with the declination of his fever; repetitive waves of heavy exhaustion mixed with wooziness threatened to claim him in its place. In all honesty, if it weren’t for willpower alone, he would’ve succumbed to the overwhelming feeling quite some time ago. However, falling flat on his face upon departing the limo hadn’t seemed entirely like good publicity nor did it seem to be in good taste. The press would have a _field day_ coming up with and fabricating all kinds of explanations as to why such a thing had readily occurred. And while John didn’t give a fuck what the press went off and did on their spare time, there were others that did. Eppy and Paul, in particular, would be shell-shocked into oblivion if the image of the Beatles were to end up even just a _wee_ bit tainted. It wouldn’t matter the circumstances or if they were accidental. Fingers would be pointed, and as usual, he, _John Lennon,_ would be in the line of fire. And why? Because his _stupid_ body had _stupidly_ chosen to betray him… and he let it.

John heaved a sigh. There was so much he was constantly up against. At this rate, he’d be happy just to stick his aching head into a block of ice and leave it there till pain faded to numbness and numbness faded to nothing… He didn’t want to feel… He was tired of feeling… He was tired, period. Bloody hell, never mind being a burden in the eyes of everyone else; he was a right burden to himself it seemed… But as they say, the show must go on…

“It’s the Beatles!! John, George, look at me!!” John, in his wearied state, couldn’t remotely bring himself to acknowledge the pleas and calls of their many fans. With the way he was feeling both physically and mentally, he didn’t have the energy to tap into his lively and animated side for them as he normally would on any given ordinary day. Everything seemed so bloody distant and out of kilter… He was _so_ tired… _Utterly_ knackered beyond belief… Even a bit angry for reasons he couldn’t readily fathom. “Marry me, I’d make you so happy, John Lennon!” came another desperate plea.

‘ _Make me happy, will ye’_? _Well, for starters, ye’ could begin by telling all yer friends to quit fucking screaming in me ears… and then follow their lead_ …’ John thought glumly, not even bothering to glance up in her direction. Any last traces of happiness he’d managed to cling to thus far, were rapidly slipping away. He didn’t want to do this anymore. He wanted so desperately to be elsewhere, warm and dry, and feeling thousands of miles above the weather. Dare he mention the unraveling feeling to anyone of his band mates; they’d only look him in the eye, laugh in his face, and tell him that they told him so… ‘ _I knew all along that you weren’t up to task…_ ’ they’d say. ‘ _Poor, stupid sap…_ _thinking you had what it takes… Clearly, you couldn’t be more wrong…_ ’ And John would be out of his head to argue. He _was_ a poor, stupid sap… A right daft, stubborn, overly zealous, arrogant, burdensome sod of a sap…

The sudden yelp from directly behind him; yanked the ailing Beatle from his prolonged reverie, bringing his onward trek to a dead halt. There was the distinct sound of fabric tearing and as John turned to look behind him, he discovered a visibly shaken George gaping with utmost shock into the mob of particularly rowdy fans to the right of them. At first, John couldn’t bring himself to figure out what it was that had happened but after a while of silently searching George for answers, he discovered that an entire sleeve of his coat had been pulled from its hem. _What the_ …

John’s gaze moved slowly from the ripped sleeve to George’s stunned face to the fan responsible for the incident. She was proudly holding up the sleeve and waving it around like a trophy of some sort. “It’s _his_!!” she shouted, “A piece of _George Harrison_!!”

A resulting commotion ensued and it wasn’t long before a scuffle broke out as others surrounding her attempted to get at the piece of fabric in a rabid struggle to tear it from her rather strong grip. _Bloody hell_ …

“You all right, Geo?” John asked hoarsely; turning his attention, back to the petrified Beatle.

George slowly glanced to him, visibly shaken and rendered speechless by the unexpected occurrence, and after a while nodded. He rather looked like a wet and pale deer caught in headlights.

“Keep it moving, boys,” Mal yelled loudly from somewhere behind them, his voice somehow rising above the pandemonium.

After briefly looking George over with tired, barely functioning eyes, John turned and started walking again as though nothing had happened. George wasn’t hurt. Shaken but wasn’t hurt, nonetheless. As for the sleeve, there wasn’t a thing they could do to redeem the situation gone awry, anyway. Things were plenty crazy as they were and considering the number of horrifying things that could easily have occurred in place of the ripped sleeve, there was no choice but to move. No choice but to keep walking like the sheep they were being herded as courtesy of shepherd Mal Evans.

The rain, assassin-like in nature, continued to fall, each individual drop beginning to feel like tiny missiles upon the exposed parts of John’s body. He was starting to feel a bit chilled all over again as the rain uninvitingly eased itself into every possible nook and cranny of his coat, soaking him to the very core. Hellish didn’t even begin to describe the scene he’d been involuntarily thrust into. To make matters worse, his nose had began to run and had developed, all its own, an annoyingly persistent tickle within it. Sniffling miserably, the guitarist managed a reactive grimace before erupting submissively into a particularly violent and wet sneeze. The pain that proceeded to grip his entire head and neck succeeded in throwing him off balance and before he knew it, he was on his knees, his world spinning aberrantly about him. He managed to stubbornly pull himself back up without help and continued on his way, still sniffling at the ever-present tickle in his nose and still oddly light in the head.

By the time they finally reached the entrance, John’s eyes were watering profusely from the persistent will to sneeze and he could barely see the door through the wavering distortion the mist created. Could barely see the security guards as they hurriedly moved to usher him in through the glass double doors, into the shelter the large building provided. The lights were plenty bright too and that combined with the perpetual roar and additional commotion about him contributed mercilessly to the continual lightness in his head.

“The Beatles have arrived!!” someone loudly announced from right beside him.

Visibly shaken from the resulting unexpected scare, John audibly yelped and looked up in complete surprise directly into the face of a calculating video camera, its large, unseeing, intrusive lens picking up his every floundering move. _Bloody fantastic_. Unable to contain an uncharacteristic blush in the aftermath of his less-than-smooth blunder, the rhythm guitarist found the energy to display one of his many creatively-crafted silly faces in place of the favored finger before forcing himself to move on, following still in Ringo’s footsteps.

Cameras lurked everywhere. And everywhere where cameras weren’t a gaggle of press reporters were present; shoving microphones in their faces and shouting questions at them, their voices seeming to hold close to megaphone capacity. It took everything in John to keep from lashing out. He was beyond overwhelmed as it was, cold, frazzled, and _dangerously_ close to his breaking point…

“How excited are you to be back in New York a second time?”

“How does the venue differ from where you played last February?”

“Where are you scheduled to go next?”

Who, what, where, when, how… ‘ _Why_?’ was the only question that John found to have relevant value. _Why_ the hell couldn’t these people back off? _Why_ did they find the constant need to hound them continuously? _Why. Why. Why. What…_ _What_ would it take to gain a bit of space? He had some questions all his own to toss back into the works… The press would never see it coming…

“Don’t feel obligated to respond,” Mal furtively told them as though sensing the scheming frustration-fueled words budding on John’s tongue, “All questioning is to be reserved till after the show. There isn’t time. Just keep moving.”

‘ _Bollocks, Mal_ …’ John thought with a slight pout, ‘ _Now you’ve gone and spoiled me once chance at any real fu_ \--’ The sneeze escaped him finally without warning barely giving him the time to aim into the crook of a wet arm. Clutching his aching head, the Beatle groaned woozily as an immediate chorus of bless-yous and gesundheits radiated out from amongst his unfortunate surveyors. Some handkerchiefs even were thrust at him courtesy of butt-kissing, microphone-wielding reporters. ‘ _Great, Lennon. Sneezing on camera. More excellent footage unintentionally provided for the feeding monster that was the press. Day keeps on getting better and better._ _What will ye’ think of next?_ ’

John hastily declined all handkerchief offers, merely overlooking them all before vulgarly settling on the use of the back of his soaked through sleeve to suit his runny nose. Though the majority wouldn’t approve and may even be disgusted by such a shortsighted decision, he couldn’t care less of any consequences. The press could think what they want. They would, anyway… ‘ _Take that and run with it to the bank, cameraman,_ ’ John thought impishly, reveling in the known fact that both Eppy and Mal would disapprove whenever they managed to catch sight of such actions. Despite growing allover feelings of misery and discomfort and the accompanying woozy sensation still parading through his mind, he couldn’t seem to help the beginnings of a wicked grin as it momentarily spread across his face at the strangely pleasing thought.

“The Beatles will answer _all_ questions following the show at the scheduled press conference like planned!!” Mal strained to yell above the onslaught of demanding questions they were being hit with. Surrounding security guards seemed to catch on to the mantra and soon they were relaying forth the message to unruly reporters and to the occasional wayward fan that had somehow managed to leak into the building despite prohibitions.

Ushered from behind by Mal and led forward by Eppy and an additional bodyguard, the Beatles finally reached a narrow corridor and were mercilessly shoved through between two husky security guards that easily could’ve passed for doors themselves. Waves of persistent press attempted to push through after them but were swiftly rejected at the start of their endeavors. Having reached an impasse, they resorted to shouting after the Beatles, their cries falling on deaf ears for the most part with the exception of Paul who kept looking back at them, trying to look as apologetic as possible. Such a people pleaser, he was.

“Let’s go, boys!” Eppy announced hurriedly as one by one, the Beatles trailed him, leaving the excess noise and chaos behind them. The four of them found instantaneous relief as they were introduced to the quieter and less crowded atmosphere this portion of the building had to offer. They spoke little, not one of them wanting to permanently disturb the newly pristine air that now enveloped them.

Following several twists and turns, the band finally found themselves paused outside a wooden door of what was to be their dressing room. “Wait here,” Eppy ordered them, gesturing towards an important looking heavyset blond man a few feet away. The man, deep in conversation with what looked like the building’s Head of Security, had his back turned to them, seemingly oblivious to their arrival, “This’ll only take a moment.”

John smirked hollowly in response, “Why not? Take all the time in the world,” he mumbled “ _Clearly_ , we’ve got nothing better t’do than wait around all day…”

Brian wordlessly studied him before heaving a sigh and moving on to speak with the older gentlemen who had finally just begun to notice the Beatles’ presence. The two immediately engaged in polite handshake. The building’s head security guard, freed from conversation, beckoned for Mal’s attention.

“I sure hope this doesn’t take long…” Ringo sighed, once their managers were beyond earshot, “I still need to pee!”

“That would be the tiny bladder speaking,” John stated, his voice and face void of all traces of humor and emotion, “Try not to think about waterfalls and dripping faucets or the very rain that’s falling on the rooftop of this building, as we speak. I find that ‘elps me when I find meself in yer predicament.”

“Not funny, John!!” Ringo countered, but cracked an amused smile, anyway.

“Bloody ‘ell, I feel as though I’ve been dragged through the bloody mill,” Paul muttered, looking with disgust at his soaked through clothing. He lifted his gaze and his eyes fell and lingered on his surrounding band mates for what seemed like the first time since leaving the limo. All of them were soaked to the core; all of them looked like hell but it was only Ringo who was harboring an unfazed look of content despite his growing urge to pee. George looked downright shaken and frazzled and John looked blatantly miserable and sick. Paul wasn’t entirely sure how he, himself, looked but he was sure he was quite the sight, as well. He shook some excess water from his hair and started unbuttoning his hindrance of a coat, eager to get it off so he could begin to take advantage of the building’s warmth.

John lazily watched him for a bit before rapidly losing interest. Succumbing to a mind-disabling yawn, he eased himself up against the wall nearest the left side of the door and closed his eyes. He was fucking zonked now… hazy feeling… And his head… Had Ringo not been standing directly in front of him, he’d of thought that the pint-sized Beatle had somehow managed to squeeze into his skull with his drum set and was loudly banging them about. With a stifled moan, he pressed his hands over his ears and left them there, in a feeble attempt to keep out any additional outside noise…

“All right, John?” George suddenly asked, appearing unexpectedly at his side and glancing at him with concern.

John let his hands fall from his ears and he slid to the floor in a squatting position. “Lovely…” he grumbled, avoiding his eyes so as not to be questioned further on the subject.

For once, the rhythm guitar got his wish as Mal made his way back towards the band, the road manager providing the necessary distraction he needed. “I have some business to attend to,” he announced, addressing the band as a whole, “I’ll be back a bit later with all of your stage clothes.”

“All right, Mal,” Ringo responded with as cheerful a smile as he could muster.

Glaring at him, John wanted desperately to wipe that smile from his face, once and for all. How was it, the drummer could be so happy when he was so bloody miserable? _Bleedin’ optimists_ …

“What ‘appened to you, Geo?” Paul suddenly asked; pointing with curiosity at their youngest’s missing sleeve.

“Rabid fan got a hold of ‘im,” John responded hoarsely, rubbing again at his nose with the back of a wet sleeve, “‘E’s all right.”

“They get to ye,’ too, Len?” Ringo asked, turning to look John over. He gestured to John’s raised knees, revealing some mud plastered thickly to them.

John shook his head but didn’t elaborate on the detail, nor did he move to brush the telltale dirt away.

“‘E fell before we came in from the rain,” George said, speaking up finally to John’s dismay.

“Did ye’ trip or something, John?” Paul asked with a hint of worry.

“What’s it to ye’, Macca?” John muttered, clearly not interested in being the source of conversation, as rare an occurrence as it was. His patience was declining still and as a result, so was his mood. He pulled his wet coat tighter around him and hugged himself, sniffling and shivering still.

George’s accusing glare openly portrayed his immediate resistance to John’s careless dismissal of his fall. He’d seen it happen. The older guitarist had fallen because of a sneeze. _A sneeze_. He was about to open his mouth to bring the truth forth when Eppy’s escalating voice interrupted.

Having recognized the look on George’s face, John felt oddly relieved by this.

“Come ‘ead, boys,” Eppy called, attracting the attention of four wet, tired, and frazzled Beatles, “There’s someone I’d like you all to meet. The owner of Forest Hills, Stephen Bailey.”

“Now?” John grumbled, his words falling on deaf ears. Traces of relief once brought on by convenient interruption vanished when he realized that he’d have to walk to whatever it was Eppy was cooking up. He glanced to the rather inviting qualities of the linoleum floor. Couldn’t he just continue to sit here and wait? Maybe lay back and close his tired, burning, watering eyes? Rest his aching head for a few?

“What’s Forest Hills?” Ringo whispered, amongst his band mates.

“ _Here_! Where we’re playing, ye’ idiot!” George snapped.

“Right,” Ringo concluded with a sheepish grin, “Was just testing yer knowledge on the subject, Geo. Keeping ye’ on yer toes.”

“Bullshit, Ring,” George quickly responded with an amused grin. He shook his head, “And you want t’be called the smart Beatle.”

John wondered idly if, in the midst of all the upcoming insanity, there would be time for quick kip number seven-hundred and ninety-six, or wherever he was at this point in time… He’d taken so many bloody naps today; he might as well have been three-years-old all over again. Maybe _this time_ , he could get a cup of warm milk to help ease him into dreamland while he was perpetually stuck in kiddy mode… _Maybe_ he could get a bloody lollipop if he cooperated without throwing a fit…

“Lennon, I believe I addressed you, as well!” Eppy called impatiently.

John glanced up with a bit of surprise, realizing that his three band mates had already moved on to obey Eppy’s orders, leaving him in the dust…or more appropriately, mud. With a sigh of defeat, he rose to his feet and followed suit, struggling not to look as bloody lousy as he clearly felt.

“Forgive his reluctance,” he heard Eppy saying to this owner as he approached, “‘E’s a bit below par today.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Stephen Bailey responded, offering a sympathetic smile in John’s direction.

“Don’t be,” was John’s bored but snappish response.

With a flash of a disapproving glare aimed in John’s direction, Eppy quickly dived into introductions before the sharp-tongued Beatle could readily say anything more, “This is John Lennon, as you already know. And over here of these fine chaps are Paul McCartney, George Harrison, and Ringo Starr,” Eppy proudly went on to reveal, mannerisms similar as they would be had he been showing off a display case of trophies, “The Beatles,” he summed up.

“It’s wonderful to meet you,” the man stated kindly, “We’ve had quite the parade of celebrities come through here but really it’s an honor to have the Beatles here live and in person! I’m a very big fan!”

“It’s an honor to be here in the presence of a very big fan, Mr. Bailey!” Paul responded with a charming smile.

‘ _Overachieving kiss-arse_ ,’ John thought, glaring at him with a sniffle.

The owner reached into his pocket pulling out a key from within it. “Please, call me Steve! How are you all enjoying your stay in New York, so far? I realize it’s a long way from what you boys know as home.”

“We’ve been ‘ere before,” John tiredly reminded him, “There was our first American tour last February or whenever it was…”

“New York is fantastic _still_ , nonetheless!” Ringo cut in before the short-tempered guitarist could finish with something they’d all easily regret, “We only wish we had more time to really take it in.”

Steve chuckled, “One day you will. If only it weren’t so rainy this time around. This weather’s only fit for the ducks I always say.”

“We’re used to it,” Ringo responded cheerily, “Rain’s all we get back in England.”

Key still in hand, Steve quickly glanced at his watch and then at Eppy and the band, “Well, I’ll let you all get down to business, then. I realize we unfortunately don’t have all day.” He proceeded to make his way past them to get to the door.

The last of optimism in John vanished completely by this point and illness-fueled negativity continued to bubble up to the surface within his mind at an uncontrollable rate. He wanted so desperately to come off as the mischievous, witty personality that he was known to be but he couldn’t seem to control himself or the morose feelings that had recently taken him over. “‘Bout time someone realizes that we don’t ‘ave all day…” he muttered sharply in response to the older man’s words, tired eyes surveying Eppy in anger, “At the rate we were going, I thought we’d soon ‘ave to get up on stage looking like we’ve been dragged from the bottom of the ocean!”

“Fer _chrissakes_ , _belt up_ , would ye’, Lennon?” Paul harshly whispered, furtively elbowing his friend sharply in the side.

Taken aback by the bassist’s bold actions, John sucked in a deep breath and choked on it, ending up in a rather violent sounding coughing fit.

“John?” Eppy questioned, laying a supportive hand on his shoulder, “You all right?”

John shook away his touch in an air of frustration, “‘M’ _fine_!!” he snapped roughly between coughs, frantically waving him and everyone else off.

Eppy sighed, beginning to piece together now, the fact that the guitarist was in the middle of yet another severe mood swing. With a shake of the head, he turned his attention back to the building owner, “He’s all right,” he assured him with a small smile in attempt to cover up his own embarrassment.

Steven was most unfazed by the manifestation of John’s harsh words. “You should find most of what you need inside your dressing room,” he professionally stated over the rhythm guitarist’s hoarse coughs as he slid the key into the lock, “Snacks, bottled water, items of the like… It’s all very fresh!!”

George grinned, “No explanations needed. Ye’ ‘ad me at snacks!!”

“Big surprise, Harri,” Ringo smirked with a roll of the eyes.

John groaned weakly as his coughing fit finally came to an end, his eyes watering immensely and his head screaming bloody murder.

“You all right?” Paul tentatively whispered to him, finally feeling guilty for causing such a harsh fit in the first place.

“Peachy.” John snapped, his voice straining to form the simple single-syllable word.

“I didn’t mean--”

“Christ, I’m fine, Paul!” John barked drawing all eyes on him, “Just stop talking!!”

Paul’s eyes widened in shock and confusion but he said nothing in response to the rhythm guitarist’s unexpected outburst.

Key situated and turned to the fullest within the lock of the dressing room door, the owner swung it open, and stepped aside, “Here you go,” he concluded, clearing his throat nervously in reaction to the tension that suddenly seemed to cling to the atmosphere. “Is there anything else you may require?”

Wet, cold, and growing increasingly annoyed, none of the Beatles were up to making any requests. Glancing in Eppy’s direction, George saw that the owner was waiting with bated breath as though willing one of them to say something…anything… So the quiet Beatle broke the silence, “A small regional dessert, perhaps?” he suggested with a hint of uncertainty, “If it’s not too much to ask?” Somehow, he couldn’t stop thinking about the creamy cheesecake splendor his taste buds had earlier relished in.

Ringo rolled his eyes, “Nothing’s small with ye’ when it comes to grub, Geo…” He turned to Steve, “Might as well ‘ave ‘em bring up a whole smorgasbord.”

“ _Very_ funny…” George muttered, unimpressed by Ringo’s humor.

“Anything else?” Steve pressed eagerly.

“A bottle of Scotch,” John stated hoarsely, “And some--”

“Ignore that _absurd_ request,” Eppy quickly stepped in.

John pouted, looking at this point like a distraught child, “But--”

“Yer _not_ supposed to be drinking!” Eppy furtively hissed at him, “Doctor’s orders! Now do ye’ ave a proper request or not?”

“…Aspirin…” John mumbled with bitterness, “And some water…”

“Some lozenges, as well, for John…” Ringo added, glancing to his younger band mate. “It’ll help your throat,” he explained in the face of the rhythm guitarist’s resulting glare, “Make ye’ sound less like a bullfrog with a head cold.”

“Paul?” Eppy verbally prodded the bassist for his request.

“No, I’m all set, thank you,” Paul stated politely.

“Ring?”

“Think I’m all set, as well…”

Steve smiled, “I’ll see to it that the rest of your requests are fulfilled,” With that said, he scurried away like a man on a mission.

“Thank you,” Eppy called after him, before following the rest of the Beatles into the dressing room. Shutting the door behind him, he deliberately avoided eye contact with any of them, conflicting emotions threatening to explode out from him. The boys knew of Eppy’s surfacing irritation long before he showed it. His demeanor had changed entirely and they could feel it.

John couldn’t care less. He was beyond disillusioned with the way things had been unraveling thus far. Eppy could take whatever petty little problem he was dealing with and stuff it somewhere. _Christ_ , he was infuriated. _Why_? He just was. All he knew was that the feeling wasn’t going away and it was becoming harder to dismiss and get a handle on. “What’s the matter, Eppy?” he dared to taunt, looking down his nose in that renowned condescending way at the silently fuming manager, “Arse over elbows for another bloke ye’ can’t ‘ave? Fancy a go at, Steve, do ye’?”

Ringo would’ve kicked John if he was close enough to do so. Clearly, the guitarist was out of his head to be looking for a fight when now was as wrong a time as any. Shaking his head in growing disbelief, Ringo turned to take in Eppy’s reaction to John’s biting words. Almost immediately, he wished he hadn’t. Eppy’s eyes had fallen closed and he appeared to be taking in deep breaths, counting down silently. John, as he would with that mood of his, had managed to push him to the breaking point. It was only a matter of time before the manager gave in to it. The Beatles could almost count down to it. _Five_ , _four_ , _three_ , _two_ … _one_ …

Three Beatles watched as Eppy’s furious gaze finally landed on John. _Here goes_ …

“ _You_!” Eppy snapped, his outburst right on cue, “I’ve about ‘ _ad_ it with that attitude of yours!”

John scoffed and smirked defiantly in the face of Eppy’s anger, “Well, what’re ye’ gonna do, Eppy, stick me in bloody timeout? I’m a little old fer that, don’tcha think?”

“A little _old_? Who’d a known just by listening to ye’ whine and snivel this entire time!” Eppy shouted, “I realize that ye’ don’t feel the greatest but…bloody ‘ell, John!!”

‘ _Please, just shut it, John_!’ Ringo pleaded inwardly. Sure, the unpredictable Beatle had done some crazy things in his time, uttered quite the shocking string of words on occasion with that tongue of his but normally he possessed some form of good judgment when it came to knowing when to shut his mouth… or didn’t he?

“Well, what’re ye’ gonna do, Eppy!” John challenged coldly.

‘ _Perhaps he doesn’t know any better, then…_ ’Ringo concluded inwardly _. Certainly_ the younger Beatle wasn’t entirely in his head…

“I could go ‘ead and remove ye’ from the show,” Eppy responded, threateningly, “It’s not too late.”

There was silence as Ringo, Paul, and George found themselves stepping back away from what could easily escalate.

John’s eyes locked dangerously on Eppy’s as though daring him to carry on with his threat. Ringo thought they looked a bit wild and unfocused…”Y’would like that, wouldn’t ye’?” the guitarist sneered after a while.

“Don’t tempt me, Lennon!” Eppy growled.

“…You’d like to see me gone from the show…” John went on, his eyes growing wilder as he continued to pour salt onto his manager’s wounds, “…Wouldn’t ye’? _Wouldn’t_ ye’? Go ‘ead then, Eppy, get in line. Remove me from the show. Eliminate the bur-” He faltered, immediately biting down on his own tongue. He wasn’t pouring salt on anyone’s wounds but his own. ‘ _Eliminate the burden_ …’ his mind went on to scorn mockingly, ‘ _Burden_ … _Nobody wants to deal with a burden_ … _and that is exactly what you are, John Lennon_.’ John closed his eyes, trying desperately to keep his frustrations under control. After a while of prolonged silence, he tiredly shook his head in conceded defeat, in no mood to continue fueling whatever the hell it was he was fueling, “Just forget it.”

“What?”

“Just come off it, already,” John murmured, his voice shaking, “I’m sick of everyone constantly getting their knickers twisted over everything I do or say…”

“John--” Eppy sighed.

“No…” the guitarist sharply interrupted, “I _said_ forget it. I’m done…” Before anything more could be said, he plastered on a weak smile in a struggle to recover a bit of his lost joking persona, “Could _really_ use that Scotch right about now…” he quipped halfheartedly before dismissing himself from Eppy’s line of vision.

Eppy could only stare after John as he voluntarily separated himself from everyone. He knew from experience that if he dared address the musician now, he’d only be shut out. Bloody hell, what a trying day this was shaping up to be. Setting aside the happening and any additional thoughts on John, Eppy turned his attention back to the remainder of the band who’d been quietly looking on.

“He’ll be all right…” Eppy muttered as though for the sole purpose of convincing himself and only himself. It was then when he suddenly came to terms with George and his blatant missing sleeve. “What ‘appened ‘ere?” he demanded in sudden concern.

“Fan got to me,” George explained, “Frightened the bleeding ‘ell out of me,”

“Well, are ye’ okay?” Eppy asked, “Yer not hurt, are ye’?”

“‘Course ‘e’s not hurt,” Ringo put in, eager to help along the subject change, “Do ye’ see tears streaming down his face?” He managed a cheeky grin in the face of George’s resulting glare.

Eppy shook his head incredulously, “Were there any other mishaps I should know about?”

“None significant,” Paul stated seriously, “Just Geo.”

Epstein nodded with a wilted smile before allowing his gaze to drift again in John’s direction. The Beatle had carelessly dropped himself into a chair several feet away and was sitting with his head in his hands. He hadn’t noticed it before but he was shivering now, rather violently at that. Eppy frowned; no wonder the guitarist was being such an impatient, bloody bastard at the moment. As sick as he’d been, he had to be feeling god-awful and in all those wet clothes too. With his frown growing, he made his way over and knelt down beside the haggard guitarist. “How are ye’ feeling, John?” he addressed him worriedly.

John glared up at him and shrugged, his jaw quivering ever so slightly from the persistent shivers coursing through him, “Wet and cold… How’s it look like I’m feeling? Is there something else yer seeing?”

Frowning still, Eppy brought a hand to John’s forehead, “Well, yer temperature continues to decline,” he announced, with a bit of minor relief present, “Maybe that’s why yer so cold. Let’s hope it only continues to do so as the night progresses.” He leaned back slightly and proceeded to cross-examine the guitarist with scrutinizing eyes, “I’m going to ask you this one last time, John. Are y’sure yer up fer everything that’s lying in store?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” John sighed with an annoyed roll of the eyes, “My temperature’s down, isn’t it? Ye’ said so yerself.”

“That’s beside the point. Regardless, yer _still_ not yerself.”

“And how would ye’ even know that I’m not meself?” John snapped, his anger beginning to escalate all over again, “Ye’ think yer me? Think yer John Lennon, do ye’?”

Eppy drew back in slight surprise, and John deflated, realizing he wasn’t helping his case any, “‘M’fine, Brian…” he stated stubbornly after a while, a look of utmost sincerity and determination present in his adamant light brown eyes, “ _Really_.”

Eppy sighed and stood up. Before any more pensive thoughts could continue to rule him, he stepped back to address the band as a whole. “The next several hours will be grueling at the least,” he stated, “But I ‘ave no doubts that you’ll each be able to push through it in spite of what obstacles may lay in the way. Just keep that in mind.”

Four Beatles stared back at him unsure of what to say.

“What’s this about, Eppy?” Paul spoke finally, breaking the resulting silence, “Yer acting like we’re marching to our deaths or something.”

“Just trying to instill a bit of optimism, is all,” Eppy explained, nonchalantly throwing a lighthearted smile back at him.

“Well go instill it elsewhere. We ‘ave enough ‘ere in case ye’ didn’t realize,” John muttered without looking at him, “We’re the bloody Beatles fer chrissakes.”

“That ye’ are, Johnny,” Eppy replied, “But one can never ‘ave too much optimism.”

John rolled his eyes, “He’s like a bloody fortune cookie.”

The laughter that followed was unexpected. Feeling slightly amused and a bit startled, John sat back and looked on as tension seemed to lift from the atmosphere with each elated chuckle brought on at his expense. The laughter continued on and on… and on… until John was almost certain they’d all forgotten why they were even laughing in the first place. All he knew was that none of it was helping his headache any…

A series of muffled knocks from behind the door resonated above the laughter and John found himself loudly clearing his throat above the seemingly undying noise to gain his mates’ attention.

“What is it, John?” Paul responded after a while, frantically wiping at teary doe-eyes.

“Shurrup a minute and listen!!” John snapped, “Someone’s at the door!”

Laughter ceased and another group of knocks filled up the newfound silence.

“I’ll get it!” Ringo announced.

“Let me, Ritch,” Brian ordered, asserting himself in the direction of the door, “Who knows what rubbish lies behind doors these days.”

Ringo shrugged and relented.

“Mr. Epstein?” an attractive brunette bird politely spoke as Eppy opened the door revealing her slender form to them.

“Yes?” Eppy responded, eyeing her with a hint of suspicion.

“Hi, my name is Susan Baker, full-time staff here at Forest Hills.” the woman went on with a polite smile, taking care to show her nametag and title, “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”

“No, not at all,” Eppy replied, offering her a smile, “What can I do for you?”

“First, I apologize for the wait,” Susan quickly went on to explain, “I’m sure you’re not used to the sort of thing, being the Beatles, and all.”

“It’s no bother, really,” Paul assured her, proceeding to turn on his charm as he came up behind Eppy out of piqued curiosity.

“Yeah, really. No bother!” Ringo quickly put in, easing himself into view and conversation, trying clearly to overshadow Paul, “Me name’s Ringo, by the way!”

“I’m sure she knows yer name already, ye’ idiot!” Paul hissed, sharply in his ear.

Susan turned to offer them both smiles of amusement, “I’m glad to know that I’m no bother to either of you,” she stated, “I’ve been told to inform you that your belongings and music equipment will be brought here shortly, with the exception of Ringo’s drums which are currently situated backstage of where you will be playing.”

“We greatly appreciate the notification,” Eppy told her, graciously, “Don’t we boys?”

“Thank you,” four Beatles chorused, Ringo seemingly the loudest as he even went out of his way to add Susan’s name to the end of his verbal display of gratitude. John rose to his feet and made his way slowly towards the group that had gathered around Susan. Eppy and George seemed to be the only ones genuinely interested in what the bird had to say, he realized with growing amusement. Paul and Ringo were practically drooling in her presence as they endlessly competed to get her attention.

“Christ, somebody oughta put a leash on ‘em,” John mumbled to George, gesturing towards Paul and Ringo.

“Or spray them, at least,” George responded with a quiet chuckle. He looked suddenly serious, “Why aren’t ye’ in on their shenanigans? Don’t ye’ find ‘er attractive?”

John shrugged, “Don’t feel like it, I guess, though she is rather pretty…” He coughed and quietly cleared his throat, “Can’t imagine I look very attractive meself… Rather feel like a drowned rodent, hit by a train…”

“Y’look it, as well, Lennon,” George quipped.

“Shut it,” John retaliated, “Ye’ ain’t much better, y’know. Ye’ rather look like a…a…” He paused, clearly unable to come up with anything; his well of creativity having run dry, “Bloody ‘ell…I wish I could shake this stupid flu, already…” he muttered quietly in frustration.

George frowned in growing worry towards his older friend’s decrease in characteristic mentality and wit, “I’m really not so sure the flu is what ye’ ‘ave, anymore,” he admitted bluntly.

“What’re ye’ on about, Harrison?” John asked, turning to look at him.

“You’ve been sick fer less than a day and look what it’s already done to ye’,” George explained, “The entire time I was sick, I didn’t go through ‘alf the crap you ‘ave on this day alone! No feverish deliriums, no decrease in mentality…”

“It’s been more than a day,” John corrected him, “Was feeling a bit off yesterday, too… but unlike _you_ , I didn’t feel the need to milk it from day one.”

“ _Still_!”

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” John responded simply with a carefree shrug. He struggled to mask a wince as a resulting pain shot through the base of his neck, courtesy of his action, “S’not like I ‘ave the bloody plague or anything…”

“I can’t right ‘elp it, John,” George snapped.

“Seriously. Leave it alone,” John stated firmly, his voice quavering ever so slightly.

“Last chance to make requests!!” Eppy interrupted before George could say anything more on the subject.

“Any word on that aspirin I was promised?” John asked beseechingly, tired gaze moving from George towards Susan, “Me ‘ead hurts like bloody ‘ell…”

“I’ll see that you’re brought some, John,” Susan responded with an assuring and sympathetic smile directed at him. She turned to the others, “Is that all?”

Ringo started to open his mouth but Paul elbowed him, “Nope that’s all,” he filled in for the drummer, “Unless you ‘ave more to offer us that is,” he added, flashing his most charming grin.

“Wouldn’t ye’ like to know, _Macca_ ,” John sneered rather loudly.

Paul waited until no one else was looking before showing his best mate the finger to which John responded with a rather animated, silly facial expression. He watched, mildly amused as Paul struggled to keep a straight face but found that he couldn’t and burst out into a laugh. “Fuck you, Lennon,” he whispered, once he’d managed to regain his composure.

“Well, this is it,” Eppy announced, as Susan disappeared from the doorframe, “Do what needs to be done and be ready to go on in forty-five minutes. I’m sorry time is limited, but as you already know, we’re rather pressed for time.”

“I get the shower!” George called out suddenly before making a beeline for the portion of the room that concealed the bathroom, “I need it!!”

“What? No fair!” Ringo protested, “I still ‘ave to pee, y’know!”

“Well, ye’ should’ve thought about that sooner!” George responded. Before any more could be said in contradiction, he escaped out of view into the bathroom.

“I don’t care what ye’ do. Just don’t use up all the hot water,” John snapped irritably after him. He was met by a closed door.

“What now?” Paul muttered, “There isn’t much we can do till Mal’s brought our change of clothes. We’re bloody soaked through!”

“Ta, for that wonderfully blatant statement,” John mumbled sarcastically, “Still, there’s no bloody way I’m waiting for ‘im to take his sweet arse time getting back. _Unlike_ ye’ unprepared gits, I brought me an extra shirt to change into for this very reason exactly.”

“ _No_ , ye’ brought an extra shirt in case ye’ continued to sweat like a pig,” Paul countered, knowingly.

John shrugged and started to strip himself down of his wet clothes, tossing his wet coat carelessly to the floor. Following the discarding of his coat, he went to immediate work, peeling off the wet layers of formal attire he’d left the hotel in, all of which clinging stubbornly to his upper body.

“This some kind of striptease?” Ringo asked, in mock amazement as John removed his innermost shirt.

“Why, does it turn ye’ on?” John found the energy to quip. He now stood topless in the midst of the dressing room, an exhausted smirk on his pale face. Twin looks of ridicule aimed at him, slowly dissolved into resulting frowns of surprise and then concern. “Doesn’t turn ye’ on, ‘ey?” John went on with a careless shrug, “No matter, I’m no fairy, anyhow.” He nonchalantly made his way over to his belongings and searched for his source of temporary dry warmth within them.

“John,” Ringo found his tongue finally, “What’s all over yer chest?”

“Hm?” The guitarist followed Ringo’s gaze to his chest, noting instantly an array of purplish rash-like dots speckled across it, “I’m not sure…” he responded hesitantly, after a while.

“‘Aven’t ye’ ‘ad the chicken pox, already?” Ringo asked.

“Of course!” John stated, offhandedly.

“Well, what is that, then?” Ringo pressed, squinting at the peculiar dappled rash.

“I don’t bloody know, Ritch. I look like a doctor to ye’?” John grumbled, irritably.

“…Maybe yer allergic to something…” the drummer went on to suggest.

“Like what?” Paul asked, turning to him.

Ringo shrugged. “Any allergies, John?” he inquired.

It was John’s turn to shrug, “How should I know and why should ye’ care?? It’s probably nothing…”

“I don’t know…” Ringo argued, his tone of voice revealing his lack of belief, “I’ve never seen anything of the like.”

“Me neither,” Paul added, worriedly.

“First time for everything now, isn’t there,” John growled unexpectedly, causing both his present band mates to jump, “Quit staring at me. Yer making me feel bloody self-conscious.”

“Put on a shirt, then!” Paul retaliated.

“Gladly. It’s bloody cold in ‘ere,” John muttered, tearing again through his belongings. He settled on a long-sleeved shirt and pulled it over his head. “George better hurry up,” he added, turning to face his band mates once again.

“Yer telling me. I still ‘ave to pee,” Ringo muttered, reaching into his coat pocket for his pack of cigarettes.

Paul shifted his gaze to him, “Aren’t ye’ bloody cold in that wet and heavy thing yer draped in?” he asked.

“It’s dry on the inside,” Ringo responded, aiming a grin at him, “Had it layered a month ago.”

“Sure, rub it in,” Paul muttered. He went to work, removing his own wet layers that clung to his upper body. “I don’t care if I ‘ave to remain topless. Anything’s better than wearing all those wet clothes.”

“Do us all a favor, then,” John tossed an additional dry shirt at Paul, miscalculating his throw and hitting the bassist in the face. He grinned, satisfied with the result.

“Ta!!” Paul looked grateful, “Guess yer good fer something, after all, Lennon!!” he teased, fumbling to pull the shirt over his head, “Though aiming isn’t yer strong suit.”

“Sod off, I’m sick…” John muttered, “And maybe I _meant_ to hit that pretty face of yers. Could stand to rough it up a bit…”

“Whatever boosts yer pride, Johnny…” Paul laughed.

John started to respond but a hoarse cough beat him to the punch. He grimaced, bringing both his hands to his face, “Fuck…” he groaned, paling resultantly from the amount of pain that proceeded to parade through his head.

“Maybe ye’ should sit before ye’ fall down,” Paul advised him.

John ignored the bassist. “Can I bum a fag off ye’?” he asked, turning his attention to Ringo just as he was lighting up, “It seems I’ve forgotten me pack back at the hotel.”

“You shouldn’t be smoking, anyhow,” Ringo made the mistake of telling him.

John glared heavily at him, “I can’t smoke, I can’t drink, bloody ‘ell, what is it I’m even able to do? Ye’ wanna take away me right to walk and talk while yer at it?”

“Well, yer sick, John,” Ringo calmly explained, “I just don’t think--”

“It’s _my_ body, I’ll do what I wish to it. Ye’ just concentrate on looking after yerself.”

Ringo shook his head, “Suit yerself, Johnny…” He thrust his pack of cigarettes at John, “Here.”

John stared at him and then at the cigarettes before shaking his head, “Never mind…” he mumbled tiredly; looking suddenly drained of any energy he’d been able to harvest, “I change me mind.”

“As ye’ should,” Ringo responded matter-of-factly, withdrawing his offer.

“It ‘as nothing to do with yer input, so don’t get a swelled ‘ead,” John mumbled, glancing wearily about the room. His eyes settled on a loveseat situated in a far corner and he expelled a small sigh of relief as he proceeded to advance towards it, “Y’gits can do what ye’ will. I’m gon’ lay down fer a bit.”

John didn’t notice the resulting looks of relief on Ringo’s or Paul’s face. All he was suddenly aware of was the fact that he’d been on his feet for far too long now and that his body was starting to feel the strained effects of it. With the way every muscle was beginning to ache and beg for mercy once more, he wondered vaguely if his fever wasn’t starting to fight its way back up again. Maybe it was time, he take it easy while he still could.

With a defeated sigh, John made his way gingerly towards an elongated couch situated at the edge of the room opposite the vanity table and lowered himself onto it, stretching out across it as much as he could. Sleep claimed him much too quickly.

“Oi,” Paul muttered, eyeing their sleeping band mate, “‘E sure is a handful when he’s sick, isn’t he?”

“A regular git,” Ringo sighed, “I’m starting to think that he can’t well ‘elp it…”

“He is quite off today…” Paul emphasized with a frown.

Ringo nodded, “I wonder if we’ve got anymore uppers left. I’ve a strong feeling John’s gon’ need some when he awakens.”

“We do, I believe. We’ll ‘ave to dig it up, wherever it is.” Paul responded quietly. He sighed heavily, glancing impatiently at his watch, “George needs to hurry up,” he grumbled, “He’s not the only one who needs a shower!”

“I _still_ ‘ave to pee too!!” Ringo complained, “Stop reminding me that we’re waiting for the bloody loo!”

Paul sighed, “I suppose we just need something to pass the time.”

A mischievous glint suddenly crept into Ringo’s eyes, “Game of cards, perhaps?” he suggested animatedly.

“ _Again_ , Ritch?”

“Rematch,” Ringo suggested calculatingly, blue eyes wide, “Ye’ know ye’ want to, Paulieee!”

“Fine…suit yerself,” Paul relented unenthusiastically, still gazing with a bit of renewed concern in John’s direction.

 


	14. Come Together, Part I

Desperate for comfort and warmth in the form of clothing, George plastered his towel around his waist and made his way eagerly towards the bathroom exit. Gripping the door handle with a free hand, he opened the door back into the dressing room, flinching almost immediately as an array of unintelligible noise reached his eardrums. Paul and Ringo were bloody at it again. _Bloody lovely_. It was clear in all the ongoing upheaval that Ringo had beaten Paul yet again in another one of their heated card games. Over the course of his entire bathing experience, repeated sounds of unruly laughter mixed with growls of frustration from the two had somehow managed to creep into the room, assaulting George’s ears in unwavering persistence and disrupting any figments of peace he’d managed to latch on to. To his increased annoyance, he’d been able to hear _every_ taunt uttered by Ringo and _every_ responsive swear uttered by Paul, as though they’d been squeezed into the bathtub with him and those stupid cards of theirs. ‘ _Dumb gits_ ,’ George thought heatedly, shaking his head.

The only voice George hadn’t heard much of at all had been John’s, and if that wasn’t a complete reversal of reality, he didn’t know what was. Allowing his eyes to search out the recently temperamental musician, he found him in a distant corner, curled up in a love seat, completely dead and oblivious to the world. How John, being the light sleeper he normally was, was able to sleep through all the unyielding noise was beyond him and truthfully a bit unsettling. Nonetheless, George couldn’t help thinking that for the time being, he was the lucky one.

“Bloody ridiculous…” Paul was busy muttering as George crept further into the room daring to leave the sanctity of the loo behind him, “Clearly I’m off my game or something.”

“ _Or_ _clearly_ I’m too good fer ye’ to beat,” Ringo followed up slyly.

Paul responded with a laugh, “That’s about as likely as Eppy embracing heterosexuality,” he quipped.

Too cold to pay any additional heed to anyone, let alone the two, George took a moment to seek out all the changes that had taken place the entire time he’d been locked away within the confinements of the shower/bathroom. He was pleased to see that his guitar had been set gently on the floor in the middle of the room along with John’s rhythm guitar and Paul’s bass, courtesy of the staff. Also courtesy of the staff, a whole cheesecake with some freshly made finger sandwiches had been added to the assortment of snacks on what had been deemed the snack table. On a smaller table across the room, sat John’s requested aspirin and several lozenges to go along with it. It was all well and good; but most appealing, for the first time, wasn’t the pleasant abundance of edible treats, but Mal’s wonderful and most convenient contribution to the room. Carefully hung within a clothing rack right outside the bathroom door, were the _warm_ and _dry_ clothes that the band was destined to wear. A suit had never looked so good. George was almost certain they were glowing with a heavenly aura of some sort and if he listened carefully, he was almost sure he could hear the accompanying angelic choir that would often enhance such lovely occasions. Now, he wouldn’t have to wait around in nothing but a towel for longer than his modesty would prefer. Now, he wouldn’t have to freeze while he did so. Mal _certainly_ knew a thing or two about timing.

Shivering persistently, George crossed over to the clothing rack and proceeded to search out his clothes. Paul and Ringo, still heavily engaged in typical game-related argument, had yet to notice his presence. Perhaps he could grab what he needed and sneak back into the shower unnoticed before he was brought into such shenanigans.

“Blimey!! The loo’s open!!” Ringo exclaimed much too suddenly, shattering George’s dreams of remaining hidden in the presence of his friends.

“S’not open yet!” he quickly responded, “I still need to dress meself!”

Traces of relief and excitement melted from Ringo’s face, as he rose to his feet, carelessly tossing his cards to the table he and Paul had been playing off of, “Well, what were ye’ doing in there that entire time, then, Geo, wanking off? Bloody ‘ell, I nearly died waiting or worse, soiled meself!! Whatever’s left fer ye’ t’do will ‘ave to wait!”

“But I’m cold!” the young guitarist complained, shivering visibly in the towel that proved barely enough to cover him, “I need to get me clothes on before I bloody freeze into a George Harrisicle!!”

“I wonder what flavor you’d be…” Ringo wondered idly as he asserted his way past George into the loo.

“ _Irritated_ ,” George muttered sarcastically, “It’s a common flavor I’m sure you’ve been introduced to on more than one occasion.”

“Odd, ye’ always struck me as a cherry…or maybe an orange,” Ringo mused aloud from behind the slightly open bathroom door. It was blatant he had no intentions of hurrying to jump at George’s beck and call.

George scowled, clutching his clothes within a strained grip while awkwardly struggling to keep his poor excuse of a towel from dropping from his waist. If there was one thing he hated, it was being cold when he didn’t have to be. Just as much of a nuisance, he was way too bloody modest, especially when compared to the likes of his other band mates. “‘M’ about to turn into one giant goosebump…” he grumbled quietly, his irritation continuing to surge.

“Wouldn’t ‘appen if ye’ weren’t so scrawny in the first place, Harri,” Paul teased offhandedly with a cheeky grin, “Just change out ‘ere. I can assure ye’ that I’ve got more interesting things to look at than you in the nude.”

“Fine…I’ll…change out ‘ere, then,” George muttered with a slight hint of annoyingly present tentativeness. He dropped his clothes to the floor, taking extra care not to drop his towel, as well, and reached for a pair of underpants in the mess.

Paul allowed a wolf-call to playfully escape his lips, “Take it off, Georgie!!” he teased, lightheartedly.

“Git,” George mumbled, moving quickly and nimbly to dress himself.

“Our little Georgie’s _all_ grown up!!” Paul went on with a grin, highly amused at the lead guitarist’s expense.

George shook his head, beginning to wonder what had brought on the sudden change in Paul’s mood. He and Ringo had probably gotten a head start on some uppers. Go bloody figure. There had better be enough left for him if he was to achieve similar amounts of stamina to get through the remainder of this day without adding to the adamant chaos that held the band captive. Still struggling with the remaining tail end of the flu he’d had, his energy levels were rather quick to drain often leaving him easily knackered and winded on an hourly basis.

The toilet flushed, some water ran, and Ringo finally emerged from the bathroom. “Loo’s open for anyone who needs it!!” he announced cheerily.

“Don’t you want to shower, Ring?” Paul questioned.

“Nope. Don’t need to. With me beautifully crafted coat, I’ve managed to remain mostly dry. Just gonna towel-dry me hair and take it from there. I’ll be ready long before all ye’ pretty boys!!”

“Always thought yer face would take a bit of extra work,” Paul quipped, managing to duck out of the way just as Ringo picked up one of George’s socks and heaved it at him.

“‘Ey, I need that!” George whined.

“Ye’ got legs, don’t ye’?” Ringo laughed playfully, “Go get it!”

George rolled his eyes, his growing impatience finally managing to get the best of him, “In case ye’ idiots ‘aven’t realized, there isn’t time to waste fannying around. Eppy _did_ give us a time limit, y’know.”

“Right,” Paul stated, grin fading as temporarily forgotten responsibility resurfaced within him once again, “I should wake John and get ‘im into the shower next.”

“You can get me in the shower _any day_ , James Paul McCartney,” Ringo grinned widely at him, eyelashes batting in the bassist’s direction in a mock suggestive way.

“Bloody ‘ell,” George muttered with an additional roll of the eyes, “Paul was right to say this earlier, Ring. Ye’ _do_ need a hobby. Just outta curiosity, what exactly is it that goes through yer ‘ead every time ye’ dare open yer mouth?”

Ringo shrugged, crossing the room towards the vanity table, “Ye’ gotta admit, though, Georgie, I do keep things rather interesting, don’t I?”

George scoffed as he hurriedly pulled a shirt over his bare upper body, “ _Interesting_ is just a nicer alternative to barmy.”

Ringo chuckled as he seated himself in front of the large lighted mirror and casually began concentrating on brushing out his hair.

Paul shook his head in slight amusement, choosing to keep his own two-cent’s worth to himself. Making his way finally towards the peacefully sleeping rhythm guitarist, he marveled a bit at his still form before bending over slightly to jostle him awake, “C’mon, Johnny, time to wake up,” he coaxed soothingly.

The sick guitarist snorted and coughed before coming abruptly to, eyes falling lazily on the bassist’s worried face. “George out of the shower, already?” he croaked, struggling to sit up.

Paul nodded, his eyes scanning his friend’s abnormally pale face, “Yer kip help ye’ any?”

John hesitated, taking a moment to properly assess the condition of his body, “Yeah…” he revealed after a while, “Me ‘eadache’s even gone away a bit, I think…” he added with a tired, lopsided grin.

“That’s great!!” both George and Ringo chorused from distant portions of the room.

Paul looked slightly relieved, as well, “There’s aspirin if ye’ need it. Susan brought some while you were sleeping.”

John arched an eyebrow at him in slight amusement while struggling to see straight, “ _Susan_? You and that bird on a first name basis now?”

“She introduced herself in front of everyone, John,” Paul reminded him, meeting him with an arched eyebrow of his own, “Weren’t ye’ listening?”

John shrugged, “Hard to ‘ear anything over yers and Ringo’s constant pining fer ‘er attention.” He pushed himself further up off the couch and swung his legs over the edge, struggling not to sway as faintness quickly enveloped him. Caught off guard by the sudden onset of the unnerving sensation, he drew in a deep breath and let it out ever so slowly. “She was a rather pretty bird though…” he went on casually as though nothing had happened, “Weirdly reminded me of Cyn…”

“How so? They don’t even ‘ave the same ‘air color,” Paul smirked, “If anything, she rather reminded me of that up and coming actress… Rachel… Raquel… Raquel Welch, I think’s ‘er name.”

“Pretty birds…” John mumbled, giving his head a slight shake to clear it, “…Cyn and whatsername…”

Paul sighed longingly, oblivious to John’s distress, “If only I wasn’t with Jane, I would’ve…” He stopped himself there and allowed his voice to trail off.

“Yeah, too bad…” John commented into the newly emanating silence. He closed his eyes, as faintness proceeded to claim him, “Would’ve fancied watching her turn ye’ down, y’know.”

Paul wasn’t amused, “Y’would’ve been disappointed waiting, then, Johnny. I could easily have bedded her if I wanted to… I _am_ the charming one ‘ere, after all.”

John rubbed at his eyes, still struggling to shake the woozy haze that gripped him, “Not very modest, either… The _cocky_ one is more like it.”

“Ye’ sure yer feeling all right?” Paul asked, “Ye’ look a bit sick.”

John opened his eyes rather suddenly to discover Paul’s concerned eyes fixated on him. “I _am_ sick, love…” he smirked sarcastically.

“I know, but are ye’ all right?” Paul pressed.

“Paul, we went over this. I’m fine… Better than I’ve felt all day…” John responded. He frowned looking briefly uncertain on the presenting subject before masking his feelings with a small, assuring smirk.

Paul picked up on his hesitation almost immediately, “What’s the matter?” he demanded.

“Nothing… just a bit woozy from this bloody flu,” John muttered; a hint of despondency present in his voice.

Paul looked at him worriedly, debating whether or not to check the progress of his temperature. Though he was less flushed than he’d been all day, the dark bags beneath his eyes were enduring, still giving him that unrelenting, predominant look of complete exhaustion he’d been sporting for the past week. Even with all the little kips the guitarist had been managing to get in over the course of the day, it was clear it was never enough to completely reverse the lack of sleep he’d been getting for months on end. Never enough to reverse the full effects of this illness threatening to ride him directly into the ground.

Letting nary a second pass in the midst of fleeting indecisiveness, Paul finally pressed a hesitant hand to John’s forehead, still able to feel the slight amount of warmth present along with tiny beads of sweat, “You’ve still got that fever, John…” he quietly pointed out, wiping the back of his hand on his still dampened pant leg, “I’m not sure fever-reducers will be of any more help…”

The misery in John’s eyes evaporated and he glared apathetically at Paul, deceptively unfazed by his revelation, “Well, what do ye’ want _me_ to do about it?” he snapped, “Had I had control over me bloody body to begin with, I wouldn’t be in this stupid predicament feeling like the bloody nancy boy that I’ve become!”

Both George and Ringo paused in their actions and turned to look at John in startled surprise. Neither dared to speak.

Paul opened and closed his mouth, unsure of what to say or even how to react for that matter. Lennon was becoming more and more unpredictable by the minute with all these mood swings he was constantly subject to. A part of him couldn’t help thinking that maybe this wasn’t normal. Moodiness was one thing when it came to John but what he was seeing on this particular day alone seemed always to be a bit too much. A bit over the top, even for the naturally temperamental guitarist.

“I don’t think yer a nancy boy at all, John,” George said finally, breaking the deeply fallen silence, “Yer just sick… knackered as ‘ell. It’s not a crime, y’know…”

“ _Bollock_ s!!” John growled, causing his band mates to jump in startled surprise, “I’m a bloody mess and ye’ know it!!”

Paul shook his head, “That’s enough, John. I’m not gon’ sit ‘ere and listen to yer co--”

“Shurrup…” John interjected almost beseechingly, roughly raking his hands through his hair in a fit of rising agitation. Shaking uncontrollably, he drew in a deep quavering breath and held it as though trying to keep his emotions from spilling out any further. His expression softened after a while as feelings of guilt in regards to the sudden escalation of his temper rushed to overtake him. “M’sorry…” he croaked finally, his eyes averting the worried gazes of his friends, “I’m just tired… More tired than anything. I just need a shower to wake me up and calm me down a bit… I’ll be hale and hearty ‘fore ye’ know it…” He rose from his seat, still fighting with the ongoing faintness and cheerlessly staggered off for a much needed shower.

“Yer stage clothes are out here for when ye’ get out,” Ringo called after him. “Mal brought them in not that long ago. When yer out, we’ve got some uppers with yer name on them.”

John’s response, if there was one, was muffled by the sound of a closing door.

“Christ, Lennon… what’s on with ye’, mate?” Paul muttered futilely as he stared off in the direction of the newly closed bathroom door, fresh worry coursing through him.

“He’ll be fine, Paul,” Ringo called in his direction as though reading into the contents of his mind.

Turning to glance in his direction, Paul couldn’t find it within himself to respond. Despite the confidence embedded within the drummer’s words, he was still very much able to come to terms with the present uncertainty that was otherwise hidden behind his band mate’s blue eyes. Impending disaster was in the making and for some reason entirely unknown; the bassist couldn’t even begin to shake the foreboding feeling. Did his present band mates feel the same way? _Of course_. It didn’t take a psychiatrist to be able to see the spiraling nerves building within them.

Nearly thirty minutes later found the Beatles backstage applying the final finishing touches to stage setup. Paul had since gone over possible song listings with Eppy and Mal, while the three remaining Beatles had assisted each other and staff as best they could in setting up the microphones, positioning the drum set, and everything else in between, all in a less-than-orderly but effective manner.

John still wasn’t sure how anything had even managed to come together thus far. His attention span, currently proving less in tune than a hyperactive gerbil made things near impossible, and he couldn’t seem to focus on even the simplest tasks at hand. The band was getting quite annoyed with him, by this point, and he could feel it. He could sense the eye rolls behind his back every time he had to be reminded more than once to do something. Could hear the resulting whispers that emanated amongst everyone when they assumed he was out of earshot. Frankly, he was sick of it. Sick of himself and more determined than ever to prove that he _was_ , in fact, up to task. He wasn’t the child everyone seemed to want to coddle him as. He was John Lennon, for crying out loud. Strong, abrasive, ever-present John Lennon. It was who he was yesterday and every day before that, and it wasn’t about to change. The _real_ John Lennon would _never_ allow himself to show weakness in spite of all going on. The _real_ John Lennon was a true master of disguise… A _far_ cry from the master of _disgrace_ he’d recently mysteriously transformed into…

Truly, John felt like an imposter. An imposter in his own body. He’d become so transparent recently, it buggered the living hell out of him. No matter what bullshit he tried to feed anybody, they always seemed to know better. Both Paul and Ringo, to his dismay, had found reason to continue watching him nonstop like a hawk. And George never seemed to be too far away from view with that look of concern he’d only seemed to harbor for the sole purpose of throwing in his face when he least expected. He was sick of that, too. Didn’t they know who he was by now? Didn’t they know he could look after himself? Hell, he’d been doing so for as long as he could remember. He wasn’t in favor of being mothered. The one mother he’d had his entire life hadn’t wanted the task, so why should anyone else want it? He’d barely even let his aunt take on the roll when he needed it most. Flat-out refused guidance when it was everything he ever needed. Maybe it was foolish pride. Regardless, he wasn’t sure how to cope with it. All John knew how to do was further up the ante. Strengthen his so-called façade as tiresome as it all was. Even if he couldn’t fool Paul, which he never seemed able to, he could hope to keep George, Ringo, and the others at least partially in the dark. He would need to gather the remainder of his wit, his strength, his mentality and pull it together to form the best façade he had ever constructed. Easier done if he wasn’t bloody feeling so much like bloody road kill.

Since being backstage, his headache had increased slightly from almost nonexistent to the dull ache similar to what he’d been harboring earlier in the day. If history were to repeat itself, he’d suspected that it was only a matter of time before unbearable levels were reached once again. As a result, he’d drowned himself in pain meds in hopes of avoiding such a flare up while in the midst of performing. While that seemed to hold his building headache in submission, the rhythm guitarist couldn’t help wishing he had a bit more for his tumultuous stomach or even the slight fluctuating oddly worsening dizzy haze that escorted it. If only he’d allowed himself to harass someone to get him pot. He always felt good when he was high. Well above the constraints of his body…

“Twenty minutes till show time!!” someone called above the backstage chaos that had been unraveling for the past half hour.

John didn’t bother add a comment. Instead, he found himself shutting his eyes against the nagging dizziness in his dully aching head. About that pot. He might need some before the night was up. If worse came to worse, he’d have to rely solely on ignorance. Ignorance was bliss. With a bit of work, he’d train his body to pay scant attention to its petty aches and ailments. Every urge he had to just collapse and fall into a blissful sleep would be forced to be put on hold. He could sleep later. He could sleep when he was dead.

Heaving a sigh, John made his way to a backstage cooler situated on the floor out of the way and off to the side, “I need some water, I think…” he mumbled to himself, “I’m _fine_ …really I am…”

He retrieved a bottle, opened it and took a gulp as though his life depended on it. When the dizziness didn’t show any immediate signs of abating, he took a few more minor sips and restlessly looked on as everything continued to fall into place without his help. The sick feeling stubbornly prevailed, increasing steadily all the while. _Christ_. John held his breath and tried to keep motionless in fear that the slightest movement would cause him to heave. After a while, his eyes fell closed and pending faintness moved in to rattle him. _Bloody nerves, was it_? _Fuck_ …

“‘Ey, John, got a moment?”

Startled, the guitarist threw his eyes back open; his less-than-thrilled, exhausted gaze meeting up with Paul’s. John almost couldn’t help the resulting scowl that temporarily enveloped his face in regards to the new distraction that now presented itself before him. Couldn’t he have even a second to himself?? Would that be too much to ask??

“John!” Paul repeated when the rhythm guitarist didn’t immediately respond.

“What, Paul?” John grumbled through gritted teeth.

Paul frowned, concern evident in his eyes, “You all right? Still woozy or something? Ye’ look it…”

“Well, aren’t ye’ the perceptive one,” John muttered impatiently, hints of sarcasm dripping from his voice. His eyes closed, against the commanding dizziness and newly accompanying nausea continuing to surge within him, “Ye’ gonna tell me what it is ye’ want or am I gonna ‘ave to tune into me psychic abilities?”

“I wanted to run the list of songs by you that I came up with,” Paul responded, ever so slowly, sensing John’s rising irritation, “We don’t ‘ave much time and ye’ need to ‘ear it so we’re on the same page.”

John forced his eyes back open, his wooziness increasing with the action. He sucked in a deep breath and swallowed hard at the sudden existence of bile clawing at his insides, “Well, what is it, then?” he snapped rather brusquely.

Paul found himself hesitating as he took in John’s deteriorating outward appearance, “Not feeling the greatest then, are ye’?” he accused knowingly with a smirk, “The greenish tint to yer face clashes something awful with the auburn in yer hair.”

“Just when I thought ye’ couldn’t sound any more queer,” John responded with a short-lived smirk, the lighthearted comment breaking down the wall of mounting tension. His eyes fell closed again in his fight to overcome his strengthening symptoms, “On with it, Macca… I’ll be fine. Jus’ a bit of nerves…”

After staring at him a moment longer, Paul sighed and reentered business-mode, “The songs are as follows, in this exact order,” he reported, nervously trying to hold John’s distracted gaze, “We start off with ‘She Loves You’, then ‘Please Please Me’, ‘All My Loving’, ‘Can’t Buy Me Love’, ‘All I’ve Got to Do’, and ‘And I Love Her’. Following a brief intermission we return with ‘Eight Days a Week’, ‘Rock and Roll Music’, ‘Love Me Do’, ‘Everybody’s Trying to Be My Baby’, ‘Follow the Sun’, ‘Words of Love’, and last but not least ‘A Hard Day’s Night’. Got it?”

No answer. Studying him again, Paul noticed that the guitarist’s already fleeting lack of focus had fallen to the floor, his breathing rather ragged and shallow and his face terribly pale and beaded with sweat.

“John?”

The guitarist brought a hand to his face and scrubbed at his eyes, seemingly oblivious to Paul’s concerns.

“John!”

John jumped; his hand coming away from his face, and tired, watery eyes rushed to make contact with the particular worried pair staring back at him. “What?”

“Did you ‘ear me?”

“Yeah… yeah got it,” John responded distractedly.

Paul skeptically raised an eyebrow, signaling the doubt flowing through him, “John, this is serious. You’re going to need to know what you’re doing when you get out there!!” he sternly reprimanded, “Ye’ can’t be iffy or even the slightest bit shaky on our routine once the curtains go up.”

John rolled his eyes, nearly losing his balance in the process, “Relax, it’s not like the fans’ll take notice or anything,” was his indifferent response.

“That’s no excuse!” Paul snapped, “Are you certain you’ve got a handle on this or am I going to ‘ave to repeat the song listing?”

John managed a smug smirk, the characteristic expression paving its way over the obvious discomfort he’d been displaying beforehand, “First song’s ‘She Loves You’, followed by ‘Please, Please Me’. Last two songs are ‘Words of Love’ and ‘A Hard Day’s Night’. I’ve got this, love. No worries.”

“And you’re feeling all right?” Paul further inquired, “Aside from yer _nerves_ ,that is?”

“Macca, I’m fine …” John sighed, his mate’s adamant persistence beginning to annoy him beyond belief, “I said I’ve got this. What more do ye’ want? A bloody book? A doctor’s note?” Discomfort resurfaced within him again and he was quickly finding that he could hardly contain nor keep the intensifying queasiness from chipping away at his deceitful mask. He was dizzy still. Why was he so dizzy? “I have to go…tune me guitar…” he blurted out, after hastily searching his mind for any suitable excuse to disappear from view.

Paul took the bait and nodded, “Go ‘ead, John,” he relented finally, “I just hope yer being completely honest. It’s less than a half hour till we go on and there’s no time for maybes or uncertainties of the like. Just make sure yer as close to par as can be before we begin.” With that said, he stalked away; leaving the guilty guitarist to cling to his critically weaved lies.

John didn’t have time to dwell on Paul’s words. His churning insides weren’t giving him a break. He was almost certain he was about to throw up. Almost certain that he needed to get the hell out of sight before he did so. Struggling to come off as nonchalant as possible, he made his way across the floor towards the backstage exit. He’d be safe in the dressing room. Safe to heave and then get back to business as though nothing had happened. Piece of cake. Very similar to his common bouts with nerves _without_ the recurrent dizziness, that was. _Perhaps_ , this wasn’t so different after all. _Perhaps_ , everything would be fine…

 

* * *

 

“Ten minutes to show time!!” Eppy announced animatedly, shooting each of the present Beatles assuring smiles. The hype getting the best of him, the antsy manager could barely sit still in all his excitement.

Huffing, Paul glanced at his watch. Where the fuck was John? Nearly ten minutes ago, the guitarist had dismissed himself from conversation to tune his guitar. Here was his guitar still hidden away from the world in its case and John was nowhere to be seen. Worse, the case clearly hadn’t been opened since stage preparations had begun. Hadn’t even been touched for that matter, it seemed. John was cutting it close tonight… Dangerously close. Paul frowned as numerous possibilities began to run through his mind right then. _Maybe John was having one of his passing bouts with stage fright. He did mention nerves earlier and clearly he didn’t look to be feeling all that well. Maybe as a result, he had to take one of his dreaded trips to the loo. Maybe something had happened while he was in there. Maybe something was wrong. Maybe he fainted again or worse…his feverish haze was back. No…no…don’t be ridiculous, Paul. There’s nothing wrong… Aren’t ye’ supposed to be the positive one here_? _Christ, what good are ye’ if ye can’t be bloody positive every once in a while_?It was easy to be positive when situations allowed such feelings to suffice… But this particular situation involved one particular John Lennon, however. John, whose middle name might as well have been ‘unpredictable’ rather than Winston. John _Unpredictable_ Lennon. Paul sighed, enough with the daft guesses and the bloody over-analyzing. He’d better go check and see for himself. Put an end to the overbearing madness that was his mind.

Paul found the dressing room to be carelessly left unlocked. ‘ _If there’s anyone around capable of such a mistake, it’s probably John_ ,’ Paul readily concluded inwardly with a bit of amusement present. The musician had the tendency to be forgetful at times…and other times, he simply didn’t care enough to abide by the rules. ‘ _Let in a crazed fan, ye’ will, Lennon_ ,’ Paul thought with a disapproving shake of the head as he took care to lock the door behind him as he entered the room.

He stopped, just inside the door and glanced about the room, ears straining to listen. He could see that the bathroom door was open a crack but no sounds radiated out from its vicinity. No sounds radiated from anywhere, in fact. The room was unnervingly quiet. A bad feeling thrived within the back of Paul’s mind. He brushed it away without thinking, flinching slightly as it resurfaced without hesitation.

“John?” Paul called out before finally getting his feet to move in the direction of the open bathroom door.

Other than the thick sound of silence, not a sound resembling a response in the slightest could be heard.

“Maybe he’s not here, then…” Paul murmured aloud as he steadily advanced on the bathroom door. One hand on the doorknob, he jerked his arm back and the door swung open soundlessly, revealing to him the shower, the toilet, and something huddled on the floor beside the toilet. “What…” Paul couldn’t bring himself to finish his initial thought, “John?”

Fuck…the thing was John. John was huddled on the floor at the base of the toilet… John was… Heart pounding, Paul sprung into action and crouched down beside his fallen friend, hurriedly assessing his condition. He was still… Much too still. Paul rolled the guitarist’s face ever so slightly into the light for a closer examination. Eyes were closed; face was pale and drenched in sweat, mouth unnervingly void of the slight mocking smirk it always seemed to hold. A trickle of fresh vomit dribbled from the corner of his mouth and Paul moved to clear it away with a nearby towel that had been draped over the edge of the bathtub behind him. Bloody hell… John… Bloody fucking hell… Finally, his voice erupted into sound and he found himself nearly shouting his friend’s name, his tone fueled by tremendous fear and worry, “John… John… wake up!!” he pleaded.

Nothing. He was unconscious. John was unconscious… and show time was bearing down on them. “Johnny!!” he continued on frantically, his voice quavering like mad. He reached over to jostle his shoulder in as gentle a manner as he could muster in the face of his growing panic. “John… John… c’mon, love… Bloody wake up!!”

John groaned responsively all at once and tired eyes fluttered open. “Wha…” he croaked weakly, the remainder of his words eaten by a hoarse cough.

“Thank goodness!!” Paul breathed, every sense of relief known to his body escaping out at that very moment, “Thought I’d… thought I’d…” he couldn’t bring himself to finish, “Are ye’ all right? Yer not hurt are ye’?”

“No…” Head still flat on the tiled floor, John glanced around him ever so slightly, taking in the toilet and the bathtub, all of which severely squeezed into his personal space, “What the bloody ‘ell is this?!” he demanded in ample confusion.

“You passed out,” Paul informed him, concern growing, “What ‘appened, John?”

“M’not sure…” John murmured, glazed eyes struggling to meet his, “Me nerves were getting’ to me and then…” He tiredly lifted an arm gesturing to the presenting situation, “…this ‘appened…” he concluded hesitantly, raised hand collapsing against his forehead, “Christ, me bloody ‘ead hurts all over again…” he murmured, dispirited by the revelation.

“Did ye’ hit it? Tell me how many fingers ye’ see,” Paul stated, raising three above John’s face.

John rolled his eyes, “Let’s not go through this, Macca. I’m fine…”

“What’re ye’ mad? Ye’ fainted, John!! Twice now!! I’m not sure how things work in yer twisted mind but…to me, that doesn’t qualify as being okay. I’m getting Mal…”

“I’m fine…” John insisted, “This may sound a bit strange but…I think I _needed_ to faint… or _had_ to… Cleared me ‘ead a bit…”

Paul continued to glare at him, “Well, clearly that’s a matter of opinion. Ye’ don’t sound too _clearheaded_ with all that rubbish yer out yer gob with! We go on in five minutes, John!! And so far yer assumptions in regards to yerself ‘aven’t been all that reliable!!”

“Please, just take me word for it…” John pleaded, moving to sit up, “…other than the fact that me mouth tastes of…” He paused, making a face, “… _vomit_ … I feel world’s better.”

Something in John’s insistent voice made Paul stop and consider the insanity his friend was shoving in his face. Was it _sincerity_? _Stubborn persistence_? The bassist frowned, and brought a hand to John’s forehead to further explore the possibility. All instances of hope collapsed in seconds. “Y’feel clammy, John, like yer fever’s starting to rise again… I don’t think--”

“Help me up,” John stubbornly interrupted, “I’ll take some more uppers, some meds, and be good to go.”

“John--” Paul began again, hesitantly.

“I _said help_ me up, y’sod!!” John growled in sudden, surfacing frustration. He broke into a minor coughing fit, his throat not taking too kindly to his raised voice.

Unwillingly, Paul obeyed and assisted his weakened band mate in getting to his feet.

“Find me the uppers…” John ordered after taking a moment to fight off a bout of oncoming dizziness. He made his way to the sink, using it to help steady himself, and proceeded to rinse his mouth out as best he could beneath running tap water. Afterwards, he plopped a bit of toothpaste on his tongue and swished it around trying to get the awful, penetrating taste of sick from his mouth. “Hate throwing up…” he muttered to no one in particular after spitting into the sink, “Remind me never to ‘ave to do it again…”

“Not sure ye’ ‘ave a say in that,” was Paul’s absentminded response from outside the door where he continued to rummage for the evasive bottle of uppers.

Making his way towards the bathroom doorway, John leaned himself up against its inner frame and closed his eyes. Bloody hell, he felt awful. Entirely drained of energy. Once adrenaline kicked in along with the uplifting effect of uppers, however, he’d be fine. He almost knew this for a fact as it was often always the case. In the days of Hamburg, it had been that exact combination that had gotten him through many a night. Gotten them _all_ through many a night. This wasn’t to be any different. So his temperature had skyrocketed a few times without warning… So he’d slipped into delirium without knowing… So he’d fainted… Big deal… It was no excuse for the doubts that were being thrust in his face. He’d be fine. He was _always_ fine. John Winston Lennon was _always_ fine. Even when he _wasn’t_ fine, he _was_ fine… If the others were too daft to know that by now, they’d know soon enough.

“Found ‘em…” came Paul’s reluctant announcement, after a while.

John jolted to, having almost been asleep standing up by that point. Paul was standing a few feet away, a pill bottle in hand, face twisted in utmost worry for him. All at once, a striking grin found John’s tired, wan face, like a lone, bright flame in the darkest night, and he eased himself spiritedly off from the support of the door frame ignoring the temporary dizziness that claimed him. “Ta, Pauliee, now let’s chivvy along and get this show on the road, ‘ey? We got some pleasing to do…”

“Just try not to overdo it,” Paul demanded sharply, “There’s a press conference afterwards and if you’re to _insist_ on going ahead with that, as well, you’d better be prepared for what may lay in store.”

The grin left John’s face as the implied meaning of Paul’s words managed to sink into his sluggish brain. “I’m _more_ than prepared,” he stated arrogantly with a bit of a cold smirk as he snatched the bottle of uppers from Paul’s grip. He went at them, dumping several into the palm of his hand.

“What are ye’ doing?!” Paul snapped, launching himself at John and grabbing the bottle from his hand, knocking the exposed pills to the floor, “Ye’ trying to kill yerself? One pill’s all ye’ need, especially with all that you’ve taken today!”

John’s initial look of alarm held temporarily steady before melting away into that of sudden malevolence. His eyes finding Paul’s, he narrowed them in complete malice, “Bloody do that again, McCartney, and watch what ‘appens!!” he growled threateningly; his voice dangerously low.

Paul shook his head in astonishment, daring to hold the guitarist’s heated gaze. “The fuck is wrong with you, Lennon?” he countered, his words more fueled by concern than anger. Sure he was sick, more than likely a little fried from his fever combined with persistent illness and exhaustion, but… this didn’t seem right…

“I can ‘andle meself,” John went on finally, as though those very words had what it took to justify his extreme overreaction.

Paul shook his head again, this time in disagreement, “I’m gonna talk to Eppy…” he stated resignedly, “I’m not sure what’s on with ye’ but I don’t think I want ye’ anywhere near the stage tonight. Yer not yerself…”

“Don’t you say one word to ‘im, McCartney,” John interjected, “Just do me a favor and mind yer bloody business fer once!!”

“John, this isn’t right. _Yer_ not right…”

“I’ll tell ye’ what’s not right. _You_ standing in me way!” John snapped offhandedly, pushing him off to the side, “Just back the ‘ell off!”

“John…”

“I mean it, Paul. Back off!”

Paul heaved a sigh. No sense in even trying to talk to John when he up in arms like he was. He’d get nowhere with the stubborn git and as usual, things would only worsen. Considering the time, it was best they do what needed doing. Let him cool down some in the meantime. _Time._ They still _had_ time…right? Did he dare look at his watch? Knowing he’d regret it, the bassist cast a minor glance to the contraption hugging his wrist. It was _past_ time. They’d been due on stage nearly four minutes ago. “Look at that, we’re bloody late again,” he muttered bitterly, “Eppy’s gon’ love this.”

“If ye’ know what’s good fer ye’, ye’ won’t say a word t’him about anything, Macca,” John warned, his demeanor much more subdued than seconds before, “Last thing I need is everyone fussing over me all over again. Puts me a bit out of me element, ye’ know.”

Paul gripped the handle of the door leading out into the hall and roughly pulled it open before glancing over his shoulder, once more, at his irritated band mate. “ _I’m_ about to put ye’ out of yer element, y’git…” he threatened sharply, “Just shut up and let’s go.”


	15. Come Together, Part II

Following a forward rush of time, Paul and John were handed their instruments of choice and ushered out with Ringo and George into the onslaught of stage lights and the deafening roar of the crowd. If any ill-feelings were present over punctuality issues, they were kept to one’s self, the utmost importance of the concert claiming full attention and rule of everything. The band was in full-out autopilot mode. No thoughts of anything but what loomed in front of them plagued them. For the time being, they weren’t individuals, but four parts of a whole. Four parts of one well-oiled machine known as the Beatles. How well-oiled were they for what laid in store, was something that George was unsure of. It was something that remained to be seen. He could almost see Paul’s concern and irritability rising out from within him directed towards John, without a doubt, could almost see John’s insecurities and uncertainties in regards to his foolish lack of sureness in himself and his accompanying, fluctuating well-being. He didn’t look too great either. Perhaps they’d snap out of whatever it was bothering them and everything as it had been thus far would fall into place.

“Lotta people ‘ere…” George found himself muttering aloud as he stared off into the infinite mass of screaming people, “I’d be damned if we’re actually able to ‘ear ourselves _think_ tonight.” He frowned slightly as a slight quaver worked its way into his voice.

“Scared, Georgie?” John taunted while struggling with noticeably clumsy fingers to adjust the height of his microphone.

“Sod off, John!” George retaliated, “‘Least I didn’t puke out me guts, ‘fore I got out ‘ere.”

John’s face fell, the barely present humor having been sucked from him, “You shurrup about that!” he hissed defensively, “Ye’ ‘ave no fucking clue what it is yer even on about…”

George frowned, feeling immediately taken aback. No way did he expect for John to get so self-protective over something he was normally willing to poke fun at. He started to say more in attempt to redeem the situation but stopped, noting the extreme look of irritation, tiredness, and sickness plastered on John’s face. Poor bloke was clearly miserable. Had something happened or was he just not feeling well? He seemed so bloody out of sync today…

“New York always manages to draw in a big crowd,” Paul stated indifferently as though he’d been well acquainted with the state his entire life. Adjusting the strap on his bass, he flashed George a wink, and turned towards the audience, avoiding eye contact with John altogether. George was almost sure by now that John had said or done _something_ to piss him off and vice versa.

“Well, what’re we waiting for, McCartney, old age?” John snapped, his condescending tone strengthening George’s theory, “Ye’ gonna introduce us or not?”

“That depends. We’re still waiting on you to get yer mic situated,” Paul spoke without looking at him.

“Bloody thing…” John grumbled; pronounced aggravation shaking his voice as he continued to work aimlessly at getting the thing to budge let alone do what it was he wanted.

“Need help, Johnny?” George tentatively offered.

“No,” John responded dully.

Paul’s irritated gaze, for the first time since being on stage, landed on John right then, “Just let ‘im help, John. What is it about you being so especially hardheaded today, you can’t except help from even those who offer?”

Lennon’s responsive glare was a fragile shell of the menace he was normally capable of portraying; pure exhaustion having instantaneously tapped into it and drained it free of its extensive qualities. “Why’s it so hard for ye’ to just leave well enough alone?” he countered, his tone clearly making up for what his expression lacked.

Paul shook his head, in no mood to fuel whatever it was that was escalating between them. “Help him, Geo,” he muttered, turning away again from the both of them.

John was still struggling with his microphone as George dared to approach him, noticing instantly the violent tremors running through the fellow guitarist’s fingers. No wonder he couldn’t get a proper grip. “Here, John. Let me.”

John glanced up suddenly in surprise as though just having noticed George’s presence for the first time in years. “I said I got it!!” he snapped, that look of surprise melting into none other than exasperation.

“Clearly, ye’ don’t,” was George’s calm reply. Years ago, he wouldn’t have dared approach Lennon in such a way but he liked to think that their friendship had since evolved past such trivial matters.

“ _Christ_ … fine…take over everything why don’t ye’?” John tiredly relented, allowing his fluctuating mask of cynicism to take him over. _Why doesn’t everyone just take over everything while they’re at it_? …Backing away with almost too much force, he stumbled painfully; the weight of his rhythm guitar nearly bringing him to the ground. With a weakened growl of frustration, he steadied himself, closed his eyes, and took in a deep breath, clenching and unclenching his fists as if trying to calm himself down.

Blind to his struggles, George adjusted the microphone in one swift motion and stepped aside, “All done!” he announced.

“Ta…” John snapped, his startlingly irritated voice shaking as much now as his fingers had been moments ago.

George turned to look at him in surprise, noting the extent of the tremors coursing through his body, “Ye’ all right, John?” he asked.

“Yeah… fine…” he responded indifferently, avoiding eye contact as he crossed the stage towards his microphone.

George started to question him some more but was interrupted by Paul. “All set?” the bassist presently asked; oblivious to all previous happenings.

“Yeah. Just get on with it already, Macca…” John impatiently sighed, directing his attention to the escalating chaos of their audience, “In case ye’ already forgot, I’m not exactly feeling me best… Standing ‘ere all bloody night is the last thing I need.”

Glancing skeptically at John for a moment, Paul finally stepped up to his microphone and threw out an extravagant greeting barely audible in the enthused roar that threatened to engulf his very being. Every word that followed was lost in infinite amounts of radiating excitement.

“What’s he saying?” George whispered to John.

“Beats me,” John shrugged, failing to look all that interested to begin with. He glanced down at his rhythm guitar and seemed to be wondering something in relation to it.

“Settle down, please!” Paul pleaded, his imploring words immediately eaten alive by rambunctious fans just as soon as they were uttered, “I know you’re excited but…”

“I love you, Paul McCartney!!!” someone screamed out, bringing about an onslaught of unbelievably loud, shrill, ecstatic cries of exhilaration.

“Bloody ‘ell…” John murmured, hands scrambling for his reactively painfully throbbing ears. His eyes fluttered slightly as a wave of faintness coursed through his body like water cascading from a showerhead.

George noticed his slight waver in stance coupled with the pained look on his face. “All right?” he asked, turning his attention away from Paul momentarily.

“Bloody, fucking headache…”

“I know you’re excited,” Paul repeated into the mic, straining to be heard above the growing madness, “But, ye’ really need to quiet down so I can--”

“PAaaauuuuullll!!!” someone found the need to assertively announce at a frequency barely perceptible to the human ear. Squeals galore immediately followed suit.

“Oh, fer chrissakes!” John grumbled to himself; his impatience, as it normally would in similar situations, proceeding to get the best of him. He eased his way towards the front of the stage and nudged Paul slightly aside so he could have full control of the mic, “Shurrrup already so Paul can get past the intro, would ye’?! We don’t ‘ave all bloody night!!”

George couldn’t keep a resulting smile at bay. It was always only a matter of time before Lennon would resort to such measures. No matter what, he never ceased to have Paul’s back.

“I love you, John Lennon!!” someone else screamed out, and squeals of excitement rushed to fill up the silence that had since followed John’s irritated words of aggravation.

“Hard of ‘earing, are ye’? …Shurrup, I said!!”

Both George and Paul gazed at John. As playfully mocking as the guitarist normally was on stage, they found him to be completely serious this time around, a look of tired displeasure concealed behind gaunt eyes. More thrilled squeals followed but they were much quieter than before, the audience sensing that the normally cheeky John Lennon wasn’t playing games.

Paul flashed John a fleeting look of gratitude to which John acknowledged with a wearied nod before making his way back towards his own mic. It was clear in an instance that whatever the initial cause of their row had been about was resolved in just the simple silent exchange of facial expressions. The wonders of the Lennon/McCartney friendship never ceased to amaze. In George’s opinion, it near bordered being the eighth wonder of the world.

“As I was saying,” Paul went on, finally able to get his point across and into the ears of the majority of their audience, “We’re honored to be here tonight in the wonderful state of New York, once again… You guys are just fantastic and…”

More uncontainable screams. What fan _wouldn’_ t react to being called fantastic by the charming Paul McCartney? George could only shake his head, an action barely acknowledgeable to the untrained eye. Hopped up on uppers and the like, he found he was growing a bit impatient, himself, though for reasons entirely different from Lennon’s. While Lennon clearly wanted to get everything over with, George was antsy to begin. Antsy to drown the place in music.

Paul remained hidden behind his mask of calm composure, John looked increasingly agitated. Glancing back to isolated Ringo perched up at his drum set; George noted the blatant look of detached content in his eyes. Over the years, the lead guitarist had grown to learn something about each of his band mates. When it came to Ringo, he’d quickly picked up on the fact that the tone for his mood was sometimes set in the beginning of the day. When he awoke in good spirits, he would often remain in good spirits for the rest of the day from which it was hard to disrupt him from. The same often applied to bad moods, as well. Though this wasn’t _always_ to be the case, tonight was no different, as the drummer still found reason enough to appear at ease despite the wilting masks of his other band mates. Looking at him now, it was no wonder he was often the band’s mediator with his uncanny ability to position himself well above the worst of everything. No wonder at all.

After a while, Paul gave up having already said what was important and resorted to introducing the band’s opening number, “Tonight, we’d like to lead off with a song I’m hoping you’ve all heard before and know very well. It’s a single that was made especially for you and it’s called, ‘She Loves You’!”

The fans responded with surefire loud positivity as Paul went on to count the band down. The sound of musical instruments rose to compete with screams and soon the voices of Paul and John joined in, perfectly blended together in complete, unshakeable harmony.

 

“She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah

She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah

She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah

You think you lost your love,

Well, I saw her yesterday.

It’s you she’s thinking of

And she told me what to say

She says she loves you

And you know that can’t be bad.

Yes, she loves you And you know you should be glad…”

 

Time, as it always would while performing, ceased to exist and adrenaline, as it would, moved in with suitcases chock-full of energy supplements for each of them. For the first time in what seemed like ages, George was feeling incredible, driven, energetic, and just high on life; the constant purr of his guitar through yearning fingertips having everything to do with it. It was times like this when he found himself to be content; at his happiest. When he was completely engulfed in the chaotic yet soothing world of music, not an intruding thought able to permeate his brain.

Paul remained in his element, as well, completely in control as he normally was while on stage. Even John, for the time being, lacked the growing exhaustion and tension that would otherwise work its way into his abnormally wan face. In the background, Ringo could be heard drumming freely, those rhythmic hands of his, seemingly incapable of disruption or distraction. It was liberating. All of it. And George couldn’t think of a better way to describe it.

For the subsisting moment, he and his band mates had taken on the form of their music and their music had taken on the form of them. Together, they fell hand in hand. Were completely and entirely inseparable; bonded to the fullest. Music flowed through each of them, like an endless, warm, pleasure-filled breeze taking pieces of their souls with it as it moved, blending them and blending them until four souls became one. The music was their life-force; it breathed and thrived for them. It fed their every last hunger and longing, warming them from the inside out. It was unreal… Unnatural almost… Sheer magic in the making. And it went on and on, each Beatle gaining something they needed from another. Each Beatle ruthlessly giving and giving and giving…

It was overwhelming, almost. Larger than life and the universe, itself. George closed his eyes and allowed himself to succumb to it, soon losing himself completely. He was barely aware as ending songs faded from existence and others began in their place. His fingers had gained a mind all their own, it seemed; his body, somehow, just knowing what to do. Enclosed in his musical cocoon, nothing could bother him. Not the growing pandemonium in the audience and not the insane fans that were behind it all. For a rare moment in time, he was oblivious to all of it. Oblivious as he played, oblivious as he sang… So oblivious, he didn’t notice John’s gradually growing agitation as the night wore on. Didn’t notice the hardening chords he was strumming out on his guitar with shaking hands or his lapse in technique as he unwittingly skipped over notes necessary to the songs they were performing. It wasn’t until Paul had momentarily stopped playing to address John on the subject did George drift back to earth, managing to catch bits and pieces of their veiled conversation. As he did so, having been the only one left still singing and playing, an ominous musical silence quickly proceeded to befall the stage; making even more obvious, if possible, the unrelenting screams of their viewers.

“…I’m all right,” John was saying, his voice hoarse and quavering; just audible over the roaring crowd, “M’just so bloody knackered, I can barely feel me fingers anymore…”

“Everything all right?” George whispered to his two band mates, concern mixed with confusion beginning to plague him as he set eyes on John in particular. The older guitarist looked right awful. Bone tired, never mind knackered as he’d put it.

Paul looked over at George, noticing finally that out of all four of them, not one voice or instrument was in the works and they were supposed to be in the middle of a performance… in the middle of a song for that matter. Dangerous territory if the fans took notice. _If_ they took notice… Who was he kidding? Someone might literally have to keel over right in front of this particular crowd before they’d even begin to suspect that something was wrong. Like most things, however, there was always an upside. A blindly ecstatic crowd could practically entertain itself, meaning that if things went out of the ordinary such as they were now, the band was less likely to be the on the receiving end of any barmy disturbances.

Visibly flustered, John was well below Paul’s pervasive optimism. “Look at ‘em out there…” he muttered weakly, his voice hoarsely fading in and out as he tiredly glared out into the audience, “I bet they can’t tell a thing over their own bloody screams. No one’s even playing and they’re reacting just the same. Goes to show how much they’re actually taking in. It’s fucking ridiculous… It’s fucking shit… This is all a waste, really…a big, fucking…”

“Carry on, Geo,” Paul cut in with a strenuous sigh, his gaze still worriedly fixated on John, “It’s all right. Just pick up where we left off. No worries, lad.”

Somewhat disillusioned by Lennon’s exhaustion-fueled words, George obediently picked up where he had left off, his voice belting out the remaining lyrics to “Everybody’s Trying to Be My Baby.”

Paul ended whatever side conversation that had been taking place and he and John jumped back in as though nothing had happened. George, however, didn’t fail to miss the look of lethargic distress still plastered to John’s face. He was tired. Tired and suffering, pained, shaking, near tears it seemed. Yet, he _still_ fought to keep it together. He would be a right mess when this was all over, George predicted. He already was and would only become more so. Somehow, he couldn’t help feeling increasingly sorry for him.

All throughout the following performance of “I’ll Follow the Sun, the fans continued to scream and scream, their merging voices rising continuously, succeeding in drowning out the music altogether at times. George found he couldn’t quite achieve the levels of bliss he’d held captive prior to the recent interruption. Though he tried to ignore the raucous unrelenting screams, he was growing slightly irritated by it. Maybe John was right. Maybe it _was_ all a waste. The fans couldn’t hear them. How could they? The band could hardly hear themselves! Christ, George could hardly hear Paul and the bassist was right beside him giving his all. They paid attention all right. They stared and stared, gaped and gasped, screamed, cried, fainted… but somehow George had the feeling that it wasn’t entirely the band’s instrumental technique or accompanying lyrics that had much to do with it. Had that theory been plausible, their viewers would then _maybe_ have the decency to sit back and tune in with more than just their eyes and mouths. Then perhaps those that came to do _more_ than just gape… the ones that actually came to _listen_ to them play would have the option of doing so.

Paul, as usual, seemed to be miles above any negative thoughts. Level-headed as could be, he just kept on playing, kept on singing as though they were merely recording an album in the studio with all the respectable silence in the world. Just as much composed and in control, remained Ringo, in a zone all his own, managing as always to keep the necessary beat characteristic of whatever song they were playing. John had slipped into a distant trance, himself, his hands forcefully and mechanically moving to strike the right chords. He wasn’t even trying to fool anyone anymore with those deceiving, cynical eyes of his. The misery, the sick haze, it was as much visible as was the color of his sweat-ridden hair. Lennon wanted _so_ _much_ to be done. For this to be over. For the first time that night, George was suddenly right beside him.

The third to last song of the night came to an end, and following a short introduction, the Beatles began to ease into ‘Words of Love.’ George noticed the chord mix up almost immediately, and knowing he wasn’t responsible, looked to both Paul and John for explanations. Through all the escalating noise pollution of the building, it was hard to pinpoint what exactly what was going on but it became obvious after a while that John had begun playing the intro to the wrong song.

“‘ _Words of Love’_!! We’re playing ‘Words of Love’, Lennon!’” Paul quickly informed his best mate, having to ease up right beside him just to be able to successfully capture his diminishing awareness.

In a manner not unlike a robot, the exhausted rhythm guitarist jolted to attention and quickly switched up on the chords he was playing. His mind easily slipping back into automatic, he managed to carry on the familiarized routine almost flawlessly with the exception of a few missed chords and randomly placed patches of inevitable verbal absences within his rasping voice. Wild screams ate up the atmosphere just the same as the slightly butchered song came to a much needed end. Caliber, at this point didn’t remotely matter, least of all to John. He’d done what they wanted, hadn’t he? Brought the song to a bloody end… Thankfully too. He was so dizzy; he could barely even stand straight anymore… And his head… he could barely hear himself over its relentless pounding. Was that normal? Somehow he didn’t think so, but the rowdy fans were all but helping a thing. Christ. Was some silence too much to ask for? ‘ _Is it too much of a farfetched wish_?’ he wondered wearily as Paul prepared them for the final number of the night. It had to have been, seeing as he hadn’t once been granted one iota of true silence the entire day… If the fans would just shut up for even a second, maybe it would be enough for him to re-gather his wits… He was sure he was beginning to lose it… Pretty sure he had lost it hours ago… Days ago even…

The thought of yelling into the microphone for everyone to just do him a favor and shut the bloody hell up occurred to him… but that would lead to the unnecessary use of his voice… and truthfully his throat was more than ready to quit on him. They had but one more song left… Using up the remainder of his voice on just that one plea, as tempting as it was, would only earn him permanent removal from the concert… Permanent removal from the tour… Permanent removal from the band even for all he knew. ‘ _Get it together, Lennon… You’re fine… Just a bit longer_ …’

John lifted his gaze from the unmoving calm of the floor into the wild audience and then to Paul who was trying so hard to get the final song introduction out. He was failing miserably as his shouting words presented themselves with a volume no louder than a mere whisper amongst the pandemonium. Fuck it… this was bullshit… they were barely even letting Paul announce the final song of the night… Currently they were blocking the way to bringing the concert to its proper ending. Currently they were standing between him and his bed… and sleep… and that hopeful fantasy of waking up in the morning feeling refreshed and brand new… Before John entirely knew what he was doing, he asserted himself to center stage where Paul was calmly perched and shoved him aside much as he had done earlier in the night. Assuming control of the mic and ignoring Paul’s protests, he pinpointed his oddly blurred gaze at the audience and glared menacingly. “Shurrup or get lost!” he growled hoarsely at them, “I’m sick of listenin’ to the lot of ye’!!”

“ _John_!” Paul exclaimed in astonishment as the audience, resultantly stunned, suddenly fell silent.

John looked as if he’d sink to the stage floor in a pool of relief.

Then just as quickly as blessed silence befell them, as if to answer the rhythm guitarist’s plea and shoot it down without much in the way of consideration, a deafening round of pleased cries resounded from the front of the audience. Before anything more could be said, wild cheers were bouncing off every wall and inanimate object with a vengeance even louder than before; all of which harboring what seemed like similar goals of shattering the ailing Beatle’s eardrums. “We love you, John!” someone dared to cry out above the chaos.

John’s face crumpled in pronounced discomfort and disappointment. What the fuck was this? This was bloody ridiculous… This was…

“You tried, Johnny,” George whispered to him.

Fuck… He hadn’t tried… Not remotely… Not hard enough… Was he so sick he couldn’t even instill a bit of fear anymore? Was he so sick he couldn’t be taken remotely serious? “Leave it alone, John…” Paul was telling him now as if sensing that he had been about to do something crazy. Well he didn’t have to worry about that. He was practically spent. What was left of his energy was gone… Drained completely… His head felt as if he’d taken a kick to the back of it… Dizziness was overwhelming… ‘ _You’re spent for the night, Johnny… All in… Bloody nancy boy_ …’

“John, unless you’re going to announce the final song, could ye’ step aside? Fans are getting antsy, I think…”

‘ _Then I’ll shut ‘em up… Watch me shut ‘em up once and for all_ …’ his mind pleaded weakly. His body didn’t have the energy for such shenanigans. He really didn’t feel all that great at the moment… Succumbing to overpowering defeat, the guitarist turned and submissively made his way back towards his own microphone…

“…’A Hard Day’s Night’!” the remainder of McCartney’s voice drifted back towards Lennon’s ears followed by a deafening roar from the audience. It sounded official… like an announcement of some sort. He should probably try to tune in … Focus… Make sure he wasn’t about to miss something important but his wearied mind seemed intent on other plans.

The audience carried on, their voices threatening to deafen them all. John fought back a groan as resulting, continuous spears of pain shooting through his skull threatened to cripple the remainder of his mentality. He might as well step off the stage, hand any random fan a sharp object and tell him or her to stab him repeatedly in the ear. The pain threshold, the effects would be the same, nonetheless… minus the gruesome and possibly bloody aspect… John groaned a bit, feeling a bit uncharacteristically queasy at the extent of his own vivid not to mention vulgar imagination…

Somewhere in the distant background, Paul could be heard counting down…

Nausea proceeded to grip him and John wondered vaguely when his tolerance for the repulsive had become so limited. Deciding he’d rather not give it much thought, he tilted his head back and inadvertently allowed for his eyes to close.

“John!” someone called distantly. Maybe if he ignored it, it would go away.

“ _John_!!” Louder now.

“Fer chrissakes, Lennon, answer me!!” The intrusive voice paraded loudly through his heavily throbbing skull threatening to disassemble it altogether. Christ. What now?

The guitarist sluggishly forced his eyes open, feeling blatant, immediate irritation towards the added presence of an annoying hand waving directly in his face. The rapid motion somehow made him feel even sicker. Blinking blearily and trying not to groan, he slapped it away. “What…?” he snapped or at least thought he snapped. His tongue suddenly felt as if it had been replaced with a water-soaked sponge.

“Ye’ all right?” Paul frowned, staring hard at him, eyes chockfull of concern, “Ye’ missed yer cue… twice…”

John opened his mouth to answer but…all that escaped was a groan.

“He doesn’t look so hot, Macca… maybe we should…” John couldn’t seem to make out the rest of George’s words.

What a strange assumption, anyway. He felt… He felt… He felt-- The rhythm guitarist pulled away from his microphone with just enough time to turn away from his band mates. With just enough time to avoid vomiting what would’ve been all over the mic and the front of the stage. With just enough time to spare the audience of the gruesome sound effects that would’ve otherwise been amplified throughout the building. Twice, the rhythm guitarist violently retched, the tiresome spasms bringing up little if any traces of vomit. Their spectators screamed on, no louder and no quieter, than before. Nothing to give away the fact that they even had a clue what was happening. John wasn’t even sure _he_ had a clue what was happening and he was the current source of astonishment. “

He stood there numbly for a second, staring at the tiny puddle he’d created, his head throbbing in sickening pain before reality began to catch up with him. The show… What the fuck was he doing? What the fuck was happening…?

The various anxious cries of the audience peaked without warning and John right away knew, in his haze-filled mind, that this most recent unexpected happening of his hadn’t gone unnoticed. Great… of all the stupid additional things to happen in the public eye… _Now_ these people paid attention… _Now_ they were perceptive.He was on a bloody roll. The band was possibly going to kill him. Eppy would be so thrilled; he’d send his sorry arse on a permanent vacation to some deserted island just to be rid of him. A lucky break, it sounded like, but at the rate he was going with this stupid supposed flu of his, he’d be too bloody sick to make a proper holiday out of it. Perhaps it was this realization that dizzied him completely. Perhaps it was this realization that drained the blood entirely from his face and brought him to his knees.

“John… _John_!!! All right?” A pair of shaking hands took firm hold of both his sides and hoisted him to his feet with the surprising strength that had momentarily abandoned him. Mal… _right_ … Wait… Weren’t they…? How was he… What the…? His heart pounding thickly in his sensitive ears, he could hardly make out a thing…

“Blimey, e’s bloody let ‘imself overheat…” Mal sighed, pressing a knuckle against Lennon’s cheek. He was no more than a silhouette in John’s eyes. There was more waving in front of his face but he couldn’t quite make it out…

“Let’s get ‘im backstage where it’s a bit quieter and cooler…” came a muffled baritone voice that could only fit Ringo…

‘ _But I’m all right_ …’ John revealed or at least thought he did. His body seemed to have quit on him.

“Christ, the fans are going stark-raving mad!!” Paul… or was it George? _Bloody hell, they don’t even sound the same…_

John felt himself being dragged in a direction he was unsure of. It wasn’t until he was eased into a chair did his reluctant senses begin to re-greet the world. Another groaned eased out of him…

“Bloody ‘ell, Lennon! Ye’ trying to give us the bloody scare of a lifetime?”

Still terribly woozy, John brought his eyes unsteadily to the source of the newly spoken voice. Eppy came into focus… His eyes were wild as he frantically glanced about him as if debating what to do about the still unraveling situation.

“Are you all right, Johnny?” Ringo’s worried voice drifted from somewhere that John didn’t have the energy to scope out. He found he didn’t have the energy to answer either…

“Maybe we should call it a night,” George supplied worriedly, “He looks as though he’s ‘ad enough…”

“‘Ave you? ‘Ave you ‘ad enough, John?” Eppy asked, asserting himself further into John’s line of vision. He looked to be at a loss, completely disillusioned by the turn events. He looked as though he wouldn’t take yes for an answer. Looked as if he expected John to jump right back into the mix as if nothing had happened… As if he hadn’t just thrown up and nearly fainted on stage…

John blinked away the remaining fog clinging heavily to the back of his plaintively aching eyes and forcefully sat up, uncontrollable feelings of guilt and stupidity beginning to claw at his innards. He smirked in spite of his feelings. “Don’t be bloody ridiculous, Eppy. I’ll be all right…” He found his voice to be hoarse, barely existent in its painful attempt to bring forth words.

Eppy didn’t seem to hear him, “They’re going to want to know why ye’ fainted… _nearly_ fainted…” he corrected himself, “… _Why_ you vomited _on stage_ of all places! I suppose there’ll be all kind of rumors readily suggesting drugs and alcohol poisoning…”

John’s smirk wilted at the approach of an overwhelming wave of dejectedness. “What are ye’ on about, Brian? I ‘aven’t touched a drink all bloody day… no thanks to you…”

“They don’t know that and we can’t afford to take any chances,” Eppy responded, “How do you think rumors start, John?”

“I don’t understand…” George spoke up, “Why shouldn’t anyone be able to automatically assume he’s just ill?”

“Something happened that changes that,” Eppy muttered. He turned briefly to acknowledge the lead guitarist before allowing his eyes to settle on John once again, “Multiple sources are claiming that you fell on your way in, John. Correct?”

“Yeah and?” he muttered, glaring tiredly back into his manager’s eyes.

“Half those sources claim that you seemed intoxicated. Unstable… Unfocused… Drugged…”

“Anyone with ‘alf a brain can see that that’s not the case,” John countered, anger claiming him once again.

“Beside the point, Johnny…” Eppy sighed, “You must understand that--”

“ _Gits_ …” John interrupted, his hoarse voice quavering in pronounced frustration, “Bloody, fucking _gits_ ,the lot of ‘em…” Clenching his fists unwittingly, he rose adamantly from his seat and impulsively started away from the unwanted group that had gathered around him against his will.

“John--”

“Eppy, give ‘im a break, he’s sick fer chrissakes!” Paul snapped, staring in the direction of his blatantly miserable band mate with worry. He still wasn’t sure if it was the illness, or the drugs in his system, or both combined, but John Lennon had been handling his emotions with even less care than usual and it was often the littlest things that would succeed in pushing him a step too far.

“Right…” Eppy frowned, glancing after John with a bit of remorse, “I suppose we’ll ‘ave to terminate the remainder of the show. It’s no matter really. The majority’s been said and done. Besides, it’ll allow you boys a bit of extra rest before the upcoming press conference.”

“We’re still going ‘ead with that?” Ringo asked incredulously.

“There’s no choice now. The New York press is going to want to know _every_ last detail regarding what ‘appened on stage tonight. We can’t very well wait for tomorrow now, can we? Not if we’re due in New Jersey by late morning. By then, irreversible rumors could be sweeping the country!!”

Paul heatedly shook his head, and took off in Lennon’s direction.

John had just begun putting his guitar away in conceded defeat when the bassist came up beside him, a worried look aimed at him.

“ _What_?” John demanded shortly, irritation still present in his antics.

“All right?” Paul asked.

“I don’t feel well, Macca… I wanna get back to the hotel…” John muttered hoarsely without looking at him. He found himself shivering again and after closing his guitar case, wrapped his arms protectively around himself to keep the uncontrollable tremors at bay. The body aches that had subsided at the declination of his fever were beginning to resurface once more and he was beginning to feel right awful all over again… not that he’d ever really stopped…

Paul frowned as he regarded John’s mostly pale face. The majority of the heavy flush had vanished over time but now he could see that little tidbits of it were starting to take hold of the bridge of his nose and surrounding cheeks. John coughed right then, a horrible hoarse barking sound that shook his entire frame in what seemed like a painful manner. Paul’s frown deepened as he regarded him. Before he knew it, he had a hand pressed to his best mate’s forehead, his frown only continuing to lengthen as he concluded that John was starting to feel a bit hot all over again. “Y’shouldn’t ‘ave gone on…” he sighed, his voice full of concern and regret.

John glared at him, “What difference does it make? It’s all said and done, isn’t it?”

“Not entirely. We still have that press conference to get to,” Paul worriedly reminded him, “Remember?”

John’s glare melted into a frown and he scrubbed at his grainy, watery eyes. Fuck, he’d forgotten all about the stupid conference. “Yer kidding…” he muttered.

“You gonna be up fer it?” Paul asked, “Eppy said earlier that he’d make sure it’s a quick one if ye’ still weren’t feeling well by then.”

“Of course I’m still not feeling well… I ‘aven’t felt good all bloody day… why should that change?” John muttered cynically, “He should’ve arranged fer that since me graceful collapse earlier back in the kitchen…or wherever it was.” Feeling suddenly increasingly agitated, he forced in a deep quavering breath and closed his eyes as resulting dizziness claimed him for what seemed like the billionth time that day. He honestly didn’t know how much more of this he could take…

Paul frowned, “It’ll be all right, John,” he attempted to assure the guitarist, “Y’know that right?”

John laughed bitterly, “Don’t I know it,” He stood up unsteadily and reached for his guitar case, throwing a small sincere grin in Paul’s direction, “Let’s get this little tea party over with then, shall we?” he affirmed, traces of his true persona managing to shine through the heavy haze of constant illness that surrounded him.

Paul smiled. There was the John he knew and loved. “Y’sure yer up fer it, mate?” he asked, “They’re going to ask a lot of questions. Chances are, their noses will be where they don’t belong…”

John smirked, the trademark look of cynicism still present within his tired eyes, “What’s a few more minutes of torture?” he inquired with a halfhearted shrug, “…But if I decide I need to leave before it’s over, I’m leaving. Me throat’s killing me as it is and me voice ‘as about ‘ad it. I’m not sure how much more I can put it through if I’m to get up tomorrow and do this all over again…”

“Somehow, I don’t think anyone would be offended if y’did end up leaving,” Paul told him, managing a weak smile, “It’s pretty blatant yer sick, Johnny, and the fact that y’can barely talk should easily give off the sign that yer not right.”

John frowned at the revelation that the voice he was always so quick to fire off was no longer a trusty weapon, “I should’ve taken up bloody sign language when I ‘ad the chance…” he muttered, half-seriously. A sudden realization dawned on him right then, and he broke out into a devilish grin, “Although I do know a thing or two…” he added, allowing his words to trail off with an air of nonchalance.

Paul knowingly rolled his eyes, “Yer not showing off yer middle finger to the press, Lennon,” he chastised.

“I will if they cross me…” John muttered, “I feel like fucking crap, Macca…I don’t exactly ‘ave yer patience.”

“Y’don’t ‘ave my patience _even_ when y’ _don’t_ feel like crap, John!” Paul scoffed, “Who are ye’ kidding?”

“That’s a matter of opinion,” John replied stubbornly, turning away from him in mock resentment.

Paul sighed, “Just try not to talk till we get there, will ye’? Y’need to save what’s left of that voice of yers if yer to use it at all.”

 


	16. Things We Said Today

The press conference was conveniently being held in a different segment of the same building that the concert had been held in. The four Beatles filed into the proper room and sat at the table presented to them in alphabetical order. As usual, water was presented to each of them and microphones were adjusted to suit each musician’s preference. “Could I get a lozenge and some aspirin for John, please?” Paul politely asked a man who was helping with the set up.

The man nodded and passed the bit of information to someone else. The person on the receiving end hurried away to fulfill the request.

John’s resulting glare all but signaled pleasure as he glared in McCartney’s direction, “What’re ye’ doing?” he snapped hoarsely.

“He’s doing ye’ and the rest of us a bloody favor,” George supplied from his other side, “We’ve had the pleasure of listening to ye’ cough nonstop just about the entire walk ‘ere. We don’t fancy sitting ‘ere voluntarily through that bit of torture again!”

John frowned, but said nothing more.

A throat lozenge and a couple aspirin were presented to John by a female and he thanked her with something of a feigned smile. Hurriedly, he took the aspirin first with a sip of water, tilted his head back and momentarily closed his eyes before starting on the lozenge. He began to shiver again after a while and pulled his coat around him even tighter as though wishing to shrink inside himself.

“Are you cold, John?” Eppy asked, eyeing him with a bit of concern from the side of the table, “It’s really quite warm in ‘ere, y’know.”

“I wouldn’t know a thing about it,” John muttered; the latter of his words nearly drowned in the midst of a fleeting heavy throaty cough.

“Oh dear…” Eppy sighed. He whispered something to an important looking figure beside him and the man nodded before scurrying off to spread whatever it was that had been passed on to him. Staring at the concern embedded within his manager’s eyes, John somehow had the feeling it concerned him. This bloody night couldn’t end soon enough. He’d wished this numerous times, but it was a bloody mantra he just couldn’t seem to let go of…

The room fell suddenly silent and someone at the head of the mob of reporters spoke into the newfound quiet, “First, we’d like to begin by welcoming you all to New York for the second time! We hope your second experience has been as wonderful as your first and we’re honored that you could all be here today!”

“Thank you,” John replied jadedly, his voice still terribly hoarse with just a hint of barely perceivable despondency.

“Yes, thank you!” Paul echoed, the brisk energy within his voice proving a blatant contrast to John’s, “We’re honored to be ‘ere, as well!” Punctuating the statement with a brief, charming smile, he quickly and politely added, “If it’s not too much to ask, we’d like to begin as quickly as possible.”

A brief calm hung in the air before calamity struck and all at once, reporters moved in for the kill.

“Can anyone elaborate on what it was that just took place?”

“Is or was John intoxicated?”

“Are there drugs involved?”

John’s eyes fell closed as a resulting wave of pain-induced dizziness washed over him. His patience, caught beneath the reign of his shivering and aching body, was already wearing thin.

“One at a time please!!” Paul sighed, sensing John’s growing distress.

“Yes,” the normally mild-mannered Ringo added, “We only ‘ave two ears each, y’know, no more than the lot of ye’ and right now due to overexposure to noise, they’re barely working as is.”

The mob quieted some and the onslaught of questions slowed down to three per fifteen second interval.

“Can you explain the reasoning behind your unfortunate breakdown, John?” a balding middle-aged reporter bluntly questioned.

 _Breakdown_? John bristled at the less than subtle use of wording. Were these people capitalizing on the possibility that he’d gone mad? Bloody hell, he’d show them _mad_ … The rhythm guitarist opened his mouth to respond in a way that would properly deem him mad only to shut it again as the realization that he wasn’t quite helping the cause here dawned on him.

“John?” the man impatiently prodded him.

What was the question again? Fuck… ‘ _Quite the job yer doing here already, Lennon… Yer well on yer way to justice and redemption…_ ’ The pressure in his head seemed to increase in intensity. “C-could you repeat that?” he questioned, his voice drenched in a lack of sureness he was certain he had never let see the light of day ever, let alone in the public eye.

“Explain, if you will; the reason behind your unfortunate breakdown.”

“I uh…” His mind had abandoned him, it seemed… ‘ _Christ, what is it yer not understanding, Lennon_?’ His stomach churned repulsively in response to the thickening pounding in his head. Frowning, he draped an arm across it, hoping to keep the growing nausea at bay. Last thing he needed at this point was another fiasco…

Glancing briefly to John in heightened concern, Paul took it upon himself to respond in the uncharacteristic absence of his best mate’s response, “Performing on stage is an overwhelming and taxing experience…” he professionally stated, “John was already feeling ill beforehand and it simply caught up with him as it would anyone else, really.”

“You seemed troubled prior to your breakdown, John… Is it possible that you were under the influence of something?”

“If yer suggesting alcohol then the answer is no.” John answered dully with half a mind, the rest of him concentrating intently on willing his body not to further humiliate him for the rest of the night.

“What caused you to throw up, then, and in the midst of a performance at that?” a curly-haired reporter asked as if the whole turn of events had been planned and was, therefore, his fault.

John subtly leaned forward against the table, tightening the grip around his middle with one hand while supporting his head with the other. “I was bored…” he mumbled sarcastically, “Seemed like the thing to do.” Good-natured laughter broke free of their spectators but John wasn’t in the least bit trying to be funny. Weren’t these people remotely capable of filling in their own blanks? It was established already that he was sick. What the fuck else would have cause him to throw up?

“You’re _not_ helping matters, John!” Eppy furtively hissed in his ear, appearing behind him without warning.

John wearily rolled his eyes, “It was the _illness,_ actuall _y_ …” he answered finally, putting emphasis on the latter of his explanation.

“Care to elaborate?”

“No.”

“So alcohol isn’t a possible factor?”

“Not remotely,” John muttered, eyes beginning to fall closed in growing exhaustion. Sighing, he lifted the hand that had been cradling his middle and attempted to rub the ache out of both of them. The pain only seemed to grow as if out of sheer rebellion.

“Was it food poisoning?”

“No…”

“You look a little peaked, dear. Are you still not feeling well?” a kind-eyed brunette reporter asked; utmost empathy present in her voice.

John shrugged halfheartedly, “You must not be taking in me good side…” he sluggishly deadpanned, intentionally allowing a bit of much needed humor into the building for the first time that night. Lighthearted laughter erupted.

“What do the rest of you think?” the curly-haired reporter spoke again, directing her attention to the three remaining Beatles.

“There’s nothing to think. It is what it is,” George responded automatically, “Haven’t you been sick before?”

The reporter didn’t seem to hear his question or decisively dismissed it as casual cheekiness. “George,” she stated instead, “I’ve heard that you were sick most recently, is it possible that you’ve passed it on to John?”

“I ‘aven’t quite earned me doctorate’s degree in medicine. I wouldn’t know for sure.” George quipped. Lighthearted laughter was imminent.

John smirked tiredly, “I established that earlier. Dr. Harrison doesn’t quite ‘ave the necessary flow it needs to become official…” As more laughter sprang free, John found himself choking on the latter of his words. Before he knew it, he was well into one of his particularly stubborn coughing fits. It wasn’t until he’d near drained the majority of his water did slight relief find him. The same didn’t stand for the subsisting ache weighing terribly on his head and remaining body. Stupidillness was draining him from the inside out…

“Goodness, are you all right?” a bespectacled female reported gasped.

Despite his increased discomfort, John managed a watery-eyed smirk of pronounced cynicism in her direction, “Define all right…” he croaked, clearing his burning throat.

“Sounds like it’s quite the nasty bug you’ve caught. And what terrible timing well into summer!” the curly-haired reporter stated, rudely inserting herself intrusively back into conversation.

John lazily focused a pair of haggard eyes on the woman, “Well, it’s winter in Australia, y’know…” he revealed indifferently. He sniffled and cleared his throat again as laughter filled the room. So he hadn’t completely lost his wit after all… He wondered vaguely why this revelation wasn’t more comforting. Maybe it was the radiating headache still clouding his judgment… Maybe it was the overwhelming feeling of allover sickness fully beginning to claim him.

“Either way, it’s a terrible inconvenience. Were you truly on stage with this terrible illness?” she probed, bringing forth yet another subject that like her first one, easily spoke for itself.

“No, that was me stunt-double,” John muttered without missing a beat, his tone portraying its well-known sarcasm, “As for the throwing up and fainting bit; that was just a bit of extra fun… It’s a hobby in England, really. Liverpool to be exact.”

Laughter ensued causing the rhythm guitarist to collapse into an all-out wince. The amount of resulting pain that enveloped his face was infinite.

“Is that so?” the woman pretended to take the bait with an amused smile.

John indolently nodded, failing to come up with anything additionally clever and entertaining as he was normally capable of under circumstances of similar nature. He was beginning to feel a bit dazed and disoriented not to mention hot and overwhelmingly sick to his stomach. He closed his tired eyes in a passing effort to get himself to cope before reopening them sluggishly, his mind working overtime to come to terms with his surroundings. He was beginning to think that he needed some air. But if he dared get up to leave, chances were, he wouldn’t be coming back…

“Are you currently taking medication?” the kind-eyed lady presently asked him.

John blinked distractedly, “M’sorry, what?”

“Medication… for your illness?”

“Right …” John froze, his mind, once again, failing to piece together the words being thrust at him.

“Meds, John…” Ringo whispered to him as though sensing the muddled mayhem that was his mind.

John blinked and gave his head a quick shake to clear it, ignoring the searing flare up of pain that now permanently accompanied such actions. The rather violent attempt somehow yielded the desired effect as the thickening fog in his head came to a temporary halt and his delayed and suffering mentality momentarily kicked back into gear. “Right… yeah… meds…” he murmured, swallowing painfully, “M’taking prescription… prescription… meds or something of the like…”

Paul was staring hard at him. ‘ _Are you all right_?’ his eyes were questioning.

John nodded ever so slightly in response to the unasked question despite the fact that it wasn’t entirely truthful. His head was beginning to spin from his less than graceful attempt to clear it and he was feeling quite overbearingly nauseated by this point… still felt like… Quickly, he emptied his mind as though not to give his body any ideas…

“Have you seen a doctor?” a bespectacled curly redhead asked, “If not, you really should. There are a lot of strange illnesses out and about these days and clearly you don’t seem to be lugging about the common cold.”

John settled for a submissive nod by way of response, wishing deep inside that everyone would just go away… Leave him alone to his perpetual misery and feelings of illness…

“The common cold and flu aren’t all there is to worry about in this day and age,” the reporter preached on, “Some illnesses have yet to be truly understood and therefore pose a threat beyond comprehension.”

John’s frown lengthened. _Great_. Just what he needed to hear. Was this lady _trying_ to give him a scare? If anything, she was beginning to right piss him off. Had he been capable of thinking clearly, he’d give her a taste of what he felt needed to be said. He’d give them _all_ a taste of what needed to be said. Strangely enough, he had no idea where to begin… or where to end for that matter… Words were coming to him but they weren’t remotely logical… At least not to his dense, fevered mind…

As if things weren’t overwhelming enough, in the midst of this woman’s lengthy health rant, additional unnecessary words were being thrust at courtesy of his accompanying band mates… “Look alive, Johnny… All right? …Pay attention… Drink water…” The ill guitarist didn’t know whether he was coming or going… What the fuck was anyone even on about? It pissed him off… Threatened to push him to the limit. The very limit of his limit… Overwhelmed, didn’t even begin to sum up his feelings. Subconsciously clenching a fist concealed below the table in front of him, he bit down on his tongue in a desperate attempt to keep from saying anything he’d immediately regret.

“You have been properly diagnosed, right?” the reporter presently asked.

“Yes, I think… I mean, yes,” John muttered, swallowing back on the feelings of irrepressible anger still building within him, “It’s only the flu, y’know…”

“It’s got you good too,” a different reporter commented.

“Is it catching?” a blonde reporter asked, “Is this something we should all be concerned about?”

“I’m _not_ a doctor…” John testily informed her.

“As far as we know, it’s just the flu,” Paul added.

“What does this mean for tomorrow’s show?”

John merely shrugged, tired, apathetic eyes focusing idly on his nearly empty glass in front of him. It was clear after a while, that he wasn’t going to give way to a verbal response.

“We’ll see how he is tomorrow,” Paul asserted in place of John’s silence.

“Is the rest of the tour endangered?”

“ _We’ll see_ how he is _tomorrow_ ,” Paul emphasized.

“Regardless, I think I speak for everyone here when I say that we wish you the speediest of recoveries, John!” the kind-eyed brunette reporter stated.

Resulting murmurs of agreement and nods emerged from the group of reporters.

“Ta…err…thank you,” John found the energy to articulate.

“What did you boys think of Forest Hills?” the balding reporter asked, finally setting the tone for a much needed change of subject.

“Everything was practically perfect in every way!” Ringo stated, playfully quoting Mary Poppins in an effortless attempt to uplift the depressing ambience that had settled within the room.

Paul rolled his eyes at him. “ _Ringo Poppins_ isn’t that far off, really,” he stated, drawing laughter from their interviewers, “The sound system was decent, for starters!”

“The lighting too!” George quickly added, not wishing to be overlooked.

“Most importantly, the fans were wonderful, as usual,” Paul added with a charming grin.

“Always,” Ringo emphasized.

“What’s next on your list of goals following this particular tour?” a redheaded man asked.

George shrugged, “Another album most likely…”

“Another movie,” Ringo put in.

“Another tour,” George drawled, “The usual, y’know…”

“Could you offer us a preview or a sneak peek so to speak?” the man continued with piqued interest.

“Right now, we couldn’t even offer _ourselves_ any of those things,” George responded wryly, “There’s no telling where we’ll end up. Wherever the wind takes us I s’ppose.”

“Any chance that wind will blow you back to New York?”

“Why, what’s in it fer us?” Ringo cracked, bringing about another round of laughter.

“What would you like?” the man asked, taking the bait.

“A lifetime supply of your fabulous cheesecake,” George responded without missing a beat.

Laughter exploded around them.

“Y’might not want to consider that,” Paul muttered, “There isn’t enough cake in the world to satisfy that insatiable appetite of ‘is.”

“ _Cake_?! There isn’t enough _food_ , mind you,” Ringo emphasized with a pronounced roll of the eyes.

His own grin fading in the aftermath of surrounding laughter and amusement, Paul glanced over to John noting his unusual prolonged, growing silence. The rhythm guitarist with his head resting in the palm of a propped up hand was quietly looking on, an oddly distant and pensive look claiming his face. He didn’t seem to be taking in any more of the conversation that surrounded him. Paul frowned, “Holding up all right, mate?” he whispered to him.

John turned to him but didn’t answer. His eyes, half-lidded and fevered said it all.

“What’s on the agenda tonight?” a mousy-looking woman asked.

“Sleep,” George sighed yearningly.

“Sleep?” A reporter echoed as if the mere idea was ghastly.

“Yeah, we’re pretty knackered,” Paul explained, “And John’s sick so…it’s looking like an _early_ night in.” He tried to put an emphasis on ‘early’ in hopes that someone would catch on and begin to wrap things up but…that didn’t seem like it would be the case.

“Got a big day tomorrow, as well,” Ringo added.

No one noticed right away as John lowered his head to the table in front of them.

A few more questions were asked by oblivious reporters before that kind-eyed reporter abruptly cut in. “Uh…is he all right?” she asked, pointing frantically to John’s unmoving form.

Puzzled, three Beatles, Eppy, and Mal turned to look at John in surprise. Christ, had he passed out _again_?

“John!” George hissed, shaking him in attempt to wake him. Paul joined in his efforts driven by near franticness.

The guitarist awoke with a sleepy moan before succumbing into a violent fit of coughing. George pushed his glass of water at John, noting that he’d already finished his. After taking a few sips, John managed to clear his throat before dropping his aching head into his hands, his body erupting subsequently into spasms of shivers. “B-bloody…bloody ‘ell…” he squeaked out, his voice just barely audible.

“All right?” George quietly asked him, dark eyes wide in an even blend of alarm and sympathy.

“I…” John frowned, realizing that his voice seemed to be working even less than before. Clearing his throat, he tried again, “I can’t…” The repeated attempt proved even worse than the first as nothing more than a barely audible rasp came out. He coughed again and grimaced, pointing frantically to his throat in indication of its failure.

“Blimey, ‘e’s finally gone and lost ‘is voice,” Ringo announced ever so helpfully as though it wasn’t readily obvious.

John was shaking rather violently now, the tremors sounding off through the slight rattling of the wooden chair. Pain and nausea coursed throughout his body.

“Christ, John, what’s the matter?” Mal asked, turning to him in surprise. The rhythm guitarist was dreadfully pale now, almost gray it seemed. He hoped to God, it was the bloody lighting.

John started to cough again and just as suddenly, started gagging. Almost immediately, gagging became retching and within seconds, the water he’d just consumed was all over the table in front of them. Paul and George having been closest to him at the time jumped back in immediate surprise, Paul nearly falling from his seat and toppling Ringo in the process.

Mal let slip an array of colorful language once he’d realized what had just happened and rushed to the guitarist’s side to offer a comforting hand. John helplessly continued to heave over the edge of his seat, bringing up nothing more but traces of bile. Pain was written all over his face in the aftermath of each exhausting stomach contraction. “Easy, Johnny, easy…” Mal coaxed as the world around him came to a gradual standstill. The rest of the band stood in place, each looking like their own rendition of petrified deer caught in headlights.

The heaving came to a sudden end, and silence blanketed the room as John exhaustedly lifted his head and tilted it back towards the ceiling, his eyes falling closed. “All right, John?” Paul was the first to ask, breaking the silence before it could get too deep.

John nodded, ever so slightly.

“Feel better?” Mal asked.

Again, John nodded. There were tears streaming down his face now, the shininess catching in the glare of the overhead light.

Stunned silence continued to hold the room captive while the rhythm guitarist sat frozen in the aftermath of his _second_ public mishap, looking a blatant mix of misery and humiliation.

Finally the damn of shock collapsed and a resulting buzz emitted amongst observing press as various comments on the subject were subsequently being uttered right in front of them. Immediate remorse ran through the remaining 3/4ths of the band. No one knew what to do or say in order to successfully transform this particular irredeemable, unexpected occurrence.

Paul turned after a while and whispered something to Mal who in turn signaled to Eppy his formed intentions of removing John from the scene for his own good.

Eppy solemnly nodded his approval before moving closer to Mal to utter something the press wouldn’t be able to hear. “Send for a doctor while yer at it. I’d rather we ‘ave proof that this is just a case of the flu we’re dealing with ‘ere and nothing more.”

“I’ll make the arrangements from the comfort and privacy of the dressing room,” was Mal’s brisk response.

“Very well,” Eppy responded with a weak smile, “We’ll meet you…” The remainder of his words was drowned out as the press’ resulting clamor suddenly rose in volume, each individual reporter dying to be heard.

“He’s really sick, isn’t he, the poor dear?”

“What’s this mean for tomorrow now?”

“Is the rest of the tour canceled?”

“John… I’d like to speak to John Lennon…”

George’s eardrums reacted negatively to all the increased commotion, the pulsating vibrations within them giving way to the beginnings of an anxiety-induced headache. He longed for John’s commanding voice in the midst of this most recent onslaught. Two words were all it would take and silence would be imminent. Not tonight, however. Tonight, John was forced to take a backseat to things. Forced to comply as Mal led him from the room in a way that proved similar to a schoolteacher leading a sick little boy that had just embarrassed himself by heaving in the middle of class. This was all very foreign to John, as well. He looked absolutely mortified but at the same time too defeated to really do anything about it in terms of self-redemption. No jokes… no silly faces… It was one of the many worrisome things that plagued the back of George’s mind. Made this all a bit _too_ real… Strengthened the fact that he still couldn’t shake the vague feeling that something seemed very wrong… He’d seen John victim to a myriad of various illnesses over the years. John at his sickest was still John, nonetheless. Altered or not, that insuppressible Lennon charm always seemed to ease its way out from within him. Suddenly, he seemed hardly in touch with that side of himself. Seemed hardly in touch with himself at all… Was this something he’d sleep off? George bloody well hoped so… Everything, thus far, mirrored a story gone wrong. Though he wasn’t the oldest out of the four of them, it didn’t stop George from readily believing that John Lennon was supposed to be their protector. The leader of their pack, somewhat soft on the inside, tough on the outside. Most feelings of vulnerabilities and accompanying insecurities, as plentiful as they were, were _almost_ always skillfully masked from view. To see him so outwardly and uncontrollably weak all the time… just… didn’t quite sit right with him…

All at once, security filed into the room as safety precautions, should the press get unruly in pursuit of juicy details to the newly unraveling story.

“What do we do?”George presently nudged Paul, jolting the bassist from a reverie of his own.

Slightly startled, he turned to the young guitarist noting that he seemed a bit frightened at the unexpected turn of events. Paul opened his mouth to respond but was interrupted as a pair of unidentified hands suddenly clasped down on both their shoulders. Given twin jolts, both Paul and George gazed up to see Epstein’s apprehensive eyes focused on them. It was only Eppy. George emitted a minor sigh of relief. Christ, he was a bundle of nerves all of sudden. Paul too, he could see.

“Time to go, boys,” Eppy sighed. Security wants us out of the building should things ‘appen to go barmy.”

“ _Go_ barmy?” George scoffed, eyebrow arched in ridicule. He gestured frantically to the unfolding madness ensuing about them, “What does _this_ qualify as, then?”

“Nothing to trouble yer pretty little ‘ead about, love,” Ringo protectively stated from behind the youngest Beatle. He placed a gentle hand against his upper back, preparing to help guide him from the room, “Come ‘ead, now,” he cajoled. He glanced briefly to Paul, “Both of you,” he took the time to emphasize.


	17. A Hard Day's Night

“What madness, that was,” George muttered in absolute discouragement, speaking on the subject for the first time since leaving the vicinity of the conference room. The remainder of the band was being safely escorted for precautionary purposes from the scene of John’s alleged ‘ _crime_ ’ following their near annihilation, courtesy of the oh-so-considerate press.

“You speak as though it’s over,” Paul muttered with a scoff, “We still need to grab John, and hall tail out of ‘ere without further complications.”

“I’m sure Mal’s got something already prepared,” Ringo responded confidently, “‘E’s normally on top of that sort of thing.”

“…Well, it doesn’t change the fact that I need a bloody smoke,” Paul muttered, proceeding to pat down his shirt and pants pockets in desperate search for a pack. Inconveniently, the cigarettes, he _knew_ he had brought along, were nowhere to be found. He must have left them in his coat pocket which was back at the dressing room… benefiting _no one_. The realization having dawned on him, he scowled, emitting a pronounced grunt of frustration. _Brilliant_. Couldn’t _one_ thing go right today?

“Why the long face, Macca?” Ringo inquired, “So it’s not _all_ over. The brunt of it is, ain’t it?”

“Not with the way the press is carrying on about today’s misfortunes,” Paul grumbled, “For all we know, tomorrow’s ‘eadlines could end up glorifying Lennon’s contraction of the black plague.”

“John doesn’t ‘ave the plague,” George responded automatically without giving the statement much in the way of thought.

“ _Theoretically_ speaking, Harri,” Paul emphasized with a sigh. He arched an eyebrow at the youngest member of their band, “Bit slow on the uptake tonight, are we?”

“Sod off,” George mumbled, “It’s been a long day. What more do y’want? M’bloody knackered.”

“We’re _all_ knackered,” Paul replied half-jokingly, “But at least the _rest_ of us are functioning on a normal brain wavelength.”

“Blimey, what are ye’ on about?” George snapped, “Yer acting like I forgot how t’spell me own name!”

“Seems highly likely, the way yer carrying on,” Paul responded calmly. Whether he was joking by this point or not was skillfully hidden behind his mask of composure.

Entirely fed up with the day’s events, George wasn’t sure he even cared enough to find out. “It amazes me how ye’ manage to come off so pleasant and sweet in the public eye,” he commented, arching an eyebrow at Paul, “In truth, yer a regular arse, a bloody bastard.”

“I know ye’ don’t mean that,” Paul smirked, “Y’look up t’me!”

“And y’both look up t’me!” Ringo interjected somewhat teasingly though his voice held a tentative note, “Well…age-wise, anyway…” He paused to chuckle at his own joke, “Listen, calm down, would ye’? I know yer all stressed and stretched thin, and Lennon’s current predicament ain’t helping any, but now’s not the time to turn on each other, all right?”

“Sure, Ringo,” Paul muttered, “But m’not the one ye’ should be talking to. Anyone got a pack a ciggies on ‘em by any chance?”

“Left mine back in the dressing room,” Ringo responded with a cheery smile, a clear mismatch to the news he was revealing, “Y’can bum a fag a bit later on our way out.”

Paul heaved a sigh of frustration, “That won’t do. Me own pack’s back there, as well. Might as well _wait_ t’smoke me own.”

“It’s _not_ like we’re _not_ ‘eaded there _now_ , anyway,” George commented somewhat curtly, “Y’might as well do yerself a favor and come off it, already.”

Paul turned to him, emitting a glare, “ _You_ come off it!”

“ _Both of you_ come off it!” Ringo half-snapped, half-pleaded before things could further spiral out of control, “Cor blimey!! Would it kill either of ye’ t’sort out and focus on the positives ‘ere?? Believe it or not, there _are_ positives, y’know”

“If ‘ _Positive Paulie_ ’ hasn’t picked up on it, then there can’t be all that much,” George scoffed, allowing a smirk to finally claim his face, momentarily melting away his edge.

“Bloody brilliant, Harrison,” Paul muttered, failing to see eye-to-eye with the lead guitarist’s humor.

“You heard Ringo. Lighten up, would ye’?”

“I’m as light as a bloody feather, mind you,” Paul grumbled. Without another word, he hastily quickened his pace, immediately projecting himself forward, ahead of his band mates.

George heaved a sigh and reached out to grab his arm before he could get too far, “All right, Paul. What’s on with ye’, mate?”

Paul spoke without looking at him or Ringo who had come up beside him on the side opposite George. “What makes ye’ think anything’s wrong?”

“Currently, yer level of cynicism could rival Lennon’s easy. And if that’s not a sign that something’s troubling ye’, I don’t know what is,” Ringo nonchalantly emphasized.

It was Paul’s turn to sigh. “I’ve just a bad feeling is all,” he muttered quietly, his eyes slipping to the floor to avoid catching the reactions of his mates, “ _All right_?”

“What’s it about, then?” George questioned, “The press? John?”

“ _Is_ it about _John_?” Ringo pressed, suddenly eager to know the answer. If so, he’d been harboring similar feelings all day…

“I _don’t_ know… Can we just _drop_ it?”

Something in Paul’s voice compelled the two musicians to do exactly that. The hall as a result, slipped into silence.

Despite the circumstances, George was almost thankful for this newfound quiet. His tension headache still had yet to go away and his added exhaustion and accompanying stress was only making it worse. Not to mention, John’s mysterious condition and Paul’s new development, whatever _that_ was… Absently, the lead guitarist brought his hands to his temples and unwittingly worked at scrubbing away the increased discomfort.

The subtle movement wasn’t ignored. Ringo’s eyes were on him like a hawk. “All right, Geo?” he questioned, his sudden voice, shattering the silence that had become more than bliss to the lead guitarist’s ears. “Ye’ look a bit like Johnny did early on…”

George nodded after a while, “Just a bit of a bloody ‘eadache, really…”

Paul turned a stern eye on him, “Well, ye’ better _not_ be coming down with whatever it is Lennon’s got. That’s the last thing we need…”

George arched an eyebrow at him, taking slightly aback by the sharpness in his tone, “M’just knackered, Paul! Bloody ‘ell, take it easy!”

“ _Speaking_ a Lennon, I wonder how the poor blokes ‘olding up?” Ringo mused, trying again to neutralize the atmosphere through mention of the most prominent subject available to them.

“Hopefully better than we last saw him,” Eppy stated, the sudden and unexpected inclusion of his voice startling all three Beatles. They’d nearly forgotten they weren’t completely alone. Even forgot about the security guard that was currently leading them to their destination. The guard, in particular, must’ve thought them mad, Ringo couldn’t help assuming. _Bloody_ _hell_ , _Eppy_ must’ve thought them mad. Their band mate was sick with who-knew-what and here they were continuously fighting over things of trivial quality. Good thing the press wasn’t around to witness such things. Lennon had involuntarily left them with enough ways to butcher the band.

“The sooner this day’s over, the better,” Paul muttered.

The dressing room door loomed suddenly into view and Epstein, asserting himself to the head of their ragtag group, took it upon himself to hastily yank it open, much like an FBI agent investigating the scene of a crime in the making. The three Beatles followed as he entered its frame which gave way to three figures, the nearest being Mal who seemed to be overlooking the two remaining figures in the room. John, of the two remaining figures, was seated on one of the room’s sofas, his coat wrapped protectively around his shivering, half-asleep form while a woman, who gave off the essence of a nurse or caretaker of some sort, tended diligently to him.

Eppy immediately crossed the room towards Mal without the least bit of hesitation. “How’s he looking?” he demanded, breaking the calm that had otherwise held the room captive.

“He’s slightly dehydrated and he’s got the flu something awful,” the nurse responded automatically as she lifted an oral thermometer into the light for a proper reading, “One of the more extreme cases I’ve seen yet for this time of year…” She set the thermometer down on a nearby table and turned finally to take a gander at the new additions to her audience, “I’m Nurse Morrow,” she introduced herself with a smile, taking the time to take in each of their faces. She focused her gaze on Brian, “I assume you’re Mr. Lennon’s proxy in the absence of both his parents?” she questioned.

Eppy nodded, “I’m Brian Epstein. Call me Brian.”

Nurse Morrow smiled once again before allowing the subject of the matter to claim her face in an air of professionalism. “I’d like to admit John to the local hospital for observation and further testing, Mr.--” She quickly corrected herself, “Brian.”

Ringo hadn’t been able to conceal the awestruck gasp that had escaped him in the silence following the initial revelation of this Nurse Morrow’s face. Her brown eyes, gentle in nature, were kind and warm, clear windows to her very soul. She seemed real and genuinely interested in the wellbeing of her patient. Very much a contrast to the icy-eyed Scrooge of a doctor they’d had the pleasure of dealing with two times too many. Regardless, Eppy would never spring for such an encumbering suggestion had it been from the queen herself.

“I’m afraid that just isn’t remotely possible,” Eppy reluctantly responded, successfully solidifying Ringo’s assumptions.

“Why not?” the nurse inquired.

“Well, we’re due in New Jersey very early tomorrow and this kind of thing would only serve as a hindrance,” was his blunt but hesitant response.

The nurse nodded, her eyes portraying unyielding open-mindedness, “I understand that fame can be very demanding, a downright obstruction even, but this is something that…”

“Why should he require hospitalization if it’s only the flu that he’s got?” Epstein demanded overeagerly.

“He’s fairly dehydrated from excessive loss of fluids, his current 102.3 degree fever seems to be on the incline, and I have reason to believe that he’s even a bit drugged on a variety of medication that it seems he’s been taking incorrectly. It would be against hospital regulations to turn--”

“Can’t you do anything about that without admitting him?” Eppy inadvertently cut in.

“Well, yes but…” Nurse Morrow lowered her voice as she spoke and moved closer to both managers as to keep John and his band mates from overhearing her, “Certain revelations have led me to believe that this _might_ be a much more complex matter. There _are_ some doubts present, minuscule as they are…”

“Doubts?” Eppy echoed, taking care to keep his voice low. It didn’t, however, stop the nervous tremor from easing its way into the works, “What doubts?”

“Most of his symptoms indicate the flu, but others suggest something entirely different.”

“What others?” Eppy demanded.

“His previous 104 degree fever spike, the ongoing stiff neck he’s developed since, the fact that he can hardly keep anything down, to name a few…”

“Are those not possible symptoms of the flu?” Mal asked.

“They could very well be, but they can’t simply be overlooked should they suggest the onset of something highly life threatening and infective.”

“Well, perhaps we could work something out, then,” Mal asserted thoughtfully.

Epstein turned to him, eyes full of skepticism, “What is it yer on about, Mal?” he asked.

“We have him admitted overnight for testing and whatever else he may require… Early tomorrow morning, we have him discharged and settled before we’re set to leave for New Jersey. The test results if relevant can be sent ahead to our destination… I’ll have some of the road crew look into it.”

“Then, you’ll be responsible for this along with whoever else you dare to get involved,” Epstein retorted, looking suddenly as though he’d been dragged through hell and back, “Get him to the hospital and bring him directly back to the hotel before we’re set to leave. You’re also in charge of these test results… whatever they might be…”

Mal smiled in spite of Epstein’s misplaced bitterness, “All right,” he agreed simply. He knew that his attitude was only present as a defensive mechanism to cover up his concerns not just for John but for the now endangered events of tomorrow…

“Getting him to the hospital shouldn’t be a bother,” Nurse Morrow spoke, “I could easily arrange for transportation, if you’d prefer.”

“Yes, that would be quite lovely,” Mal responded appreciatively, “I’ll ride along, as well, if you won’t mind.”

The nurse shook her head, “Not at all, Mr. Evans. I’ll put in a call right now.”

“Ride along _where_?” Ringo asked, having overheard that portion of the mostly private conversation. He, Paul, and George had been since standing off to the side, having a quiet smoke to pass the time while keenly awaiting the anticipated outcome.

“To the hospital, of course,” Eppy responded casually, “John will be admitted there overnight for testing and observation.”

A series of faint gasps rang out throughout the room.

“What? Can we come along?” George asked; eyes wide in concern.

“Don’t be ridiculous! The remaining lot of ye’ will need your rest!” Epstein reprimanded sternly, “John will be fine. Mal will be with him.”

The band looked deeply troubled by the revelation with the exception of John who had at some point fallen asleep. Poor bloke wasn’t even the least bit aware of the decisions being made without his knowledge or consent. A healthy John wouldn’t have allowed such a thing to occur without first attempting to place forth his opinion and make it count for something. A healthy John wouldn’t even _be_ in this predicament…

“Better to be safe than sorry, Brian,” Mal whispered to him, catching the worried glint in his eyes prior to his assembled promise to the band regarding John’s condition.

“Yes, I suppose yer right,” Eppy sighed absently. He nervously looked on as Mal went to wake John before forcing his attention away towards the rest of his band, “It’s time to go, boys,” he tiredly announced.

“We can’t just leave ‘im!” George argued, “E’ll ‘ave our ‘eads when we see ‘im next!”

Ringo nodded in agreement, “Can’t we say our goodbyes first?”

“Very well,” Eppy relented with a flicker of a smile, “Go ‘ead, then.” It continuously amazed him more and more each day just how tightly bonded this extraordinary group truly was. In spite of all the trying times, he still had yet to believe the amount of honorable luck that had been cast his way years ago leading to the blessed opportunity of being able to become their manager.

“Time to wake up, Lennon,” Mal presently coaxed.

The three members of the Beatles approached their fourth just as Mal, with a bit of trouble, managed to rouse him from a seemingly deep slumber.

“Go ‘way, Mimi… ‘m’sick…” John protested huskily, batting away his invading hands as they moved repeatedly to jostle his shoulder.

“It’s Mal, Johnny,” the road manager patiently explained.

There was a momentary pause.

“Go ‘way, Mal… m’sick…”

“It’s important, John. It’s best you awaken for now. You can sleep all ye’ want a bit later.”

John reluctantly sat up with a bit of effort, blinking groggily into the ambient light. In a fleeting moment of alarm, he failed to even recognize where he was. He relaxed only slightly at the presence of the familiar faces around him. What is it, then?” he irritably whispered, realizing that the use of his voice was futile. Not only was it nearly nonexistent, but it was rapidly getting to the point in which it hurt his own ears and head.

“We came to say goodbye, Johnny,” Paul spoke softly, moving subtly towards him.

John frowned. Something else was hurting his head… What was it? He glanced about him distractedly, his eyes falling on a nearby lamp. With a groan, he brought a hand to his eyes unnervingly shielding himself from its luminosity. “Jesus Christ, it’s so bloody bright in ‘ere,” he mumbled, somewhat incoherently.

Eyes wide, Paul moved quickly to turn off the offending light, plunging the portion of the room in slight darkness. “That help any?”

“Better, Macca… thanks…” John mumbled, lowering his makeshift shield. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “Christ… s’like y’sods were trying t’recreate the sun or something…”

“You all right?” Ringo asked, worriedly.

“Bloody bastard of a ‘eadache just won’t go away…” John muttered listlessly, refusing to open his eyes, “Whad’ye’ gits want, anyway…?”

“We uh… came t’say goodbye, John…” the drummer replied, picking up where Paul had originally left off.

John’s eyes reopened reluctantly in a bit of surprise. “ _Bye_? What for?” he questioned in confusion while forcing himself to sit up even more. His body cried out subsequently in pain, causing his flushed cheeks to pale several shades. Even more prominent now, were the still blatant dark bags beneath his strained eyes. “Who’s the bird?” he went on to ask, gesturing towards the nurse who had now faded into the background.

“That’s Nurse Morrow. She was looking you over just recently, actually,” Paul explained, “Remember?”

John shook his head. “Pretty sure I’d remember a looker like that…”

Ringo frowned, glancing momentarily to the nurse who was now overlooking the conversation with a bit of a frown of her own. Ringo didn’t fail to notice the fleeting concern in her eyes. Was there something she wasn’t revealing?

“Well, what’s she doing ‘ere, then?” John sleepily asked, his eyes, glazed with fever, beginning to slip shut again, “And what’s with the bloody, nesh farewells? Y’sending me off somewhere?”

“Yer being admitted to the hospital, Johnny, for observation and some testing,” Mal stepped in to explain.

John’s fevered eyes suddenly widened, temporarily expelling all traces of exhaustion from them as real, unguarded fear crept into them. “ _What_?”

“You’ll be discharged early on tomorrow,” Mal elaborated with an assuring smile, “Hopefully feeling better off than I imagine yer feeling now.”

“I’ve got transportation waiting outside, Mr. Evans,” Nurse Morrow calmly cut in.

John’s face fell at that moment as he realized just how real the situation was quickly becoming. “Come t’think of it, I don’t feel all that badly, really,” he protested, his voice weak and hoarse and lacking effect, “The hospital? It’s a bit overkill, don’t y’think?”

“ _Not_ when compared toall that you’ve been through today,” Paul stated softly.

Ringo nodded in agreement, “Just think of all the pretty nurses that’ll be tending to ye’,” he grinned, attempting to help console him, “M’rather jealous just thinking about it, actually.”

John managed a grin of false bravado, “I s’ppose yer on t’something, Rings…” he mumbled mechanically.

Paul frowned, able to see blatantly through Lennon’s poorly-crafted guise.

“ _Always_ , love,” Ringo responded with a genuine smile, “I didn’t spend me whole childhood in a hospital to learn nothing of the sort.” If the drummer could see through Lennon’s act, he didn’t let on.

John no longer seemed to be listening. His initial fears had worn off and he looked sickly and exhausted all over again.

Mal took it as his cue to promptly indicate the essence of time. All at once, the Beatles came to life and jumped into official goodbyes. “…Until tomorrow,” Ringo emphasized, “You’ll be all right until then.”

John remained quiet and oddly submissive, just two more signs amongst many that he wasn’t feeling right.

Paul wanted desperately to be able to accompany him on this foreign, less-than-relaxing voyage but was more than aware of Eppy’s firm standing on the subject. “Hang in there, Johnny,” was all he could bring himself to say, “See ye’ tomorrow, all right?”

“ _Tomorrow_ never knows,” John mumbled thickly, turning to look away.

As silence overtook the room following the ominous statement, the frown returned to Paul’s face. What an odd thing to say, even for Lennon.


	18. Tell Me What You See

Perhaps they’d drugged him.

For hours on end, it had been constant poking and prodding… testing this… testing that… He’d long since, begun to feel like a medical experiment or whatever it was they… it was called.

For the time being, they’d left him alone… Told him to go on and sleep until they needed him next. His head… his body had ached so much by that point, they’d allowed him a shot of morphine and a minor sleeping aid… And now he lay here alone… Awaiting his chance to be carried off into an alternate universe. Rather, he just wanted to be carried home… Back to England where he momentarily belonged. He loved America… He really did… but… it just hadn’t been good to him, this time around… He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so bloody miserable…

_…Miserable… dizzy… hot… hot… dizzy… detached… unreal…_

“You’ll be out of here before you know it,” Mal had told him before leaving his side, “Just try and behave yourself until then…”

And then the last familiar face he knew of had disappeared, leaving him to this… this prison… This _prison_ filled with uniform faces and emotions just the same… It was no big deal, really. After all, they _all_ left in the end… Every single one of them…

And John smirked… Smirked in the face of this unsettling revelation… And then everything remotely sense-worthy slipped completely from his conscious grip…

…

He was suddenly back on stage again, in the midst of endlessly loud cries of pleasure and inconsiderately placed bright lights, a blatant contrast to… he couldn’t remember what to… At some unknown point in time, a guitar had been added to his attire and a microphone was now being thrust into his face. He glanced frenetically about him in an altered attempt to gather whatever he could of his wits… He wasn’t sure why but he felt terribly out of place… as though he’d just come into the middle of something he’d known nothing about moments ago…

“Sing, Lennon!” someone enthusiastically encouraged from behind him. Startled by the sudden plus one in company, John turned to look behind him. Paul McCartney was eyeing him eagerly and expectantly. He looked… different, though… vaguely… older maybe…? … _Was_ he? John found it odd he couldn’t quite place whatever it was about Paul that was winking him in the face… But then again, _Paul_ wasn’t the one standing on stage in a hospital gown…

“Hurry! The fans’ll get antsy, y’know! Then, y’don’t wanna know what’ll ‘appen t’ye!”

George? …He seemed a bit off, as well… What exactly was going on here?

“What’s the matter, Johnny?” Paul questioned; his gaze appearing suddenly disdainful beneath the stage lighting, “Yer looking a bit lost! If yer not used to the stage setup by now, y’might want to reconsider being in a band!”

“I can’t wear this!” John murmured, glancing down at his hospital garb.

“Don’t be daft, y’look fine!!”

“I-I don’t know the song!”

“Bollocks!” Paul responded, waving off his words, “Ye’ only wrote it three days ago! Are we going to ‘ave t’start questioning yer sanity, as well? It always comes back to ye’ in the end, y’know, Lennon… Yer past, that is… Yer future, well… that’s a different matter…”

 _Three days_? And he was already performing it? Did that happen? _Could_ that happen? Slowly and uncertainly, he opened his mouth and out flowed the words he was sure he’d never heard before let alone wrote…

“I read the news today, oh boyy

Four thousand holes in Blackburn, Lancashire

And though the holes were rather smaall

They had to count them all

Now they know how many holes it takes to fill the Albert Haallll”

 

His voice seemed to have a distant feel to it, as though it was coming from elsewhere rather than himself…

“…I’d loove to tuuuurrrrrrrnnnn youuuuuuu oooooonnnnnn…”

 

An entire cacophony of instrumental noise sounded out of nowhere, prompting him to drop the mic in surprise and he turned frantically about him, desperate to find its source. Strangely enough, not one thing capable of producing such a racket could be seen, as far as his eyesight went, that was… From what he could see, other than Paul, George, and Ringo, there was nothing… _Nothing_ was there…

Even his band mates didn’t seem to be fully there anymore… They appeared oddly see-through now… as though they were fading away…

Before John could even begin to address the unraveling situation, the stage collapsed into a blanket of pitch-darkness. And as if on cue, George’s lone voice carried out above it all, from somewhere unseen…

“…If you think the harmony Is a little dark and out of key

You’re correct…

There’s nobody there…”

 

“George?” John called out into the unwavering darkness, his voice tiny and insecure. Nothing. “Guys?” More of the same. A bit of resulting panic flooded John’s mind. He was left alone… on a stage, surrounded by a mad audience… It was dark… and anything could go wrong… Somehow, the revelation made him feel even sicker than all the nerves-inducing circumstances he’d ever been faced with…

“…And I told you there’s no one there…” 

A sudden spotlight skittered across the wooden floor and from it; Paul emerged in a manner strangely similar to a flower rising from the earth… A microphone in hand, he crossed the stage towards him as though the mere occurrence was the most normal happening in the world…

“Y-y’just came out of the floor, Paul…!” John responded dumbly as though that much wasn’t obvious, “How’d ye’… how…?”

Paul didn’t respond. Didn’t even look at him for that matter.

Impulsively, John launched himself into the bassist’s line of vision. “Paul, y’stupid git! I’m talking to ye’! How…” His escalated voice trailed off as his mate only continued to stare… right through him it seemed.

“…And it really doesn’t matter if I’m wrong, I’m right

Where I belong, I’m right

Where I beloonng…”  


It took John’s sluggish mind a while to figure out where exactly the lyrics were coming from. Then it occurred to him. Paul…

“…Silly people run around, they worry me

And never ask me why they don’t get past my dooor…”

 

He turned to shoot John a smug look right then, but his face was melting, like wax beneath a hot flame… disintegrating before his very eyes. John felt even sicker. Suddenly, it wasn’t Paul any longer, he was looking at… It was… It was… bloody hell… He’d come face to face with… Who was that? This person, whoever it was, vaguely resembled himself… Only, it wasn’t… He looked different… older somehow… How was this happening? Surely he was going mad… cracked…

As though the revelation was every bit comforting, his older form began to sing as though they were smack-dab in the middle of a deranged musical… For all Lennon knew, he could very well be… How the hell else could he explain the unfolding madness?

“…But every now and then I feel so insecuuurre

I know that I just need you like I’ve never done befoorre…

Help me if you can, I’m feeling doowwn

And I do appreciate you being ‘roouund

Help me get my feet back on the groouuund

Won’t you pleeease, please help me?”

 

Bloody hell… what was he even rambling on about? John wasn’t entirely sure how to react… Then song began to change… sounding even darker now…

“…I need a fix ‘cause I’m going doown

Down to the abyss that I left uptoown

I need a fix ‘cause I’m going doown…”  


What the fuck was going on??

Just as suddenly, the ground shifted and the walls, what he could make out of them, anyway, started to crumble all about him…

“The sky’s falling!!” Ringo could be heard yelling. Screaming ensued.

But held in place by an invisible force of some sort, John couldn’t move… He felt a bit odd… unreal, rather. Somewhere seemingly far off, his own voice could _just_ be heard resonating above the madness…

“…Cry, baby, cry cry cry cry, baby

Make your mother sigh

She’s old enough to know better, so

Cry, baby, cry cry cry cry

Make your mother sigh

She’s old enough to know better

So cry baby cry…”

 

It sounded far away… detached… a bit like how he felt. A strange sort of faintness flooded his mind as over and over again, the lyrics repeated… and then…

John blinked as a hand snapped in his face. Slowly, his eyes refocused, his worn-out gaze landing on Paul. “Hey, ye’ all right?” he was asking, looking startlingly concerned.

“I-I--” John found he could hardly speak. Had it all been a dream, then? He closed his eyes momentarily, trying to recall details but found he couldn’t…

“We ‘ave t’get to the Cavern Club. We can’t afford t’be late, ‘less you want to be replaced…”

 _Cavern Club_? Wait, that meant… John turned back to Paul, realizing suddenly that he looked much younger than even seconds ago…

“Y’ready, Johnny?” John’s eyes grew wide and his heart nearly stopped altogether as he turned towards the source of the voice he’d nearly forgotten the sound of. Stu! … _Stu_ … it couldn’t be…

“I-I never thought I’d see ye’ again!” he croaked out, eyes landing on him in a feverishly intense manner.

Stu’s initial astonishment evolved into confusion, “What are ye’ on about? Ye’ saw me moments ago!”

“I didn’t! I mean… I didn’t, really…” John finished lamely… He felt a bit dizzy all of a sudden…

Stu’s face twisted into a worried frown, “All right, love? Maybe ye’ should sit this one out… Ye’ seem a bit under the weather…”

“Not to mention, yer acting a bit like a loon,” a new voice contributed. Pete… Pete Best…

“But… but…” John flared in frustration… Christ… what happened to his tongue?

“Well, his mum just died, what d’ye expect?” Paul stated.

John blinked… _No_ , _she didn’t_ … _She died_ … _she died_ … He was suddenly faint all over again…

“He should still sit this one out,” Stu advised, “Look at ‘im… he’s burning up… Near delirious!”

… _Delirium_ …

“Are ye’ feeling all right, Johnny?” Paul demanded of him.

John frowned. No, he wasn’t, actually… He was rather hot all of a sudden… Burning up… And his head was beginning to ache something awful…

Before he could speak, however, his band mates suddenly had him surrounded, accusatory looks of disgust thrown his way. “Get us sick, y’will, Lennon! Get outta ‘ere, ye’ inconsiderate sod!!”

The pain was blinding now…

“Me ‘ead!!” Stu started to wail as though feeling John’s pain… or maybe it was John feeling _his_ pain…

In the midst of his sudden breakdown, Paul began to sing and dance as if it were perfectly justified…

“Ob-la-di, ob-la-da life goes on, brah

La-la, how the life goes on…”  


Circling around and around John and Stu, he pranced and sang on and on and on…

“Me bloody ‘ead!!” Stu moaned on…

Gripping his own head, John sank to his knees unwittingly mirroring Stu’s actions…

“…La-la, how the life goes on…”

His mate began to fade. Wide-eyed, in a mix of disabling pain, John watched as Stu evaporated before his very eyes. One by one the others followed… Only John wasn’t concerned with the others…

“Stu… no… _wait_!!!” he called out. His words were futile against such enduring occurrences…

An older man began to materialize where his best mate once sat and despite the feverish feel to him, John’s blood ran immediately cold as recognition set in. It was Alfred Lennon. _The_ Alfred Lennon that had once played the role of his father… The father that he’d once watched walk out a door never to return again… How he’d _hated_ him… _Hated_ him for all the wasted nights he’d spent as a young, naïve child awaiting his return which, all the more painful, never came… and then for his _mother_ to discard him off to his aunt-- it was no wonder he was messed up, really… Somehow though, in the midst of resurfacing feelings of overwhelming anger and hurt, it took everything within him to fight off inexplicable feelings compelling him to embrace this man he hadn’t seen in years on end… To mend the broken ties… To begin to heal strengthening feelings of abandonment… Maybe it was the fact that he felt like absolute shit… He’d probably seek comfort in a cactus had he had that option…

Before John could speak, the man stooped down to his level, the declination in his stance, making it obvious that the rhythm guitarist was no longer of the height he was used to. This, again, was a startling revelation, and John’s blood ran even colder at the familiarity of this unraveling scene… He knew in an instant what was happening as he’d had enough nightmares about it to carry on into oblivion and beyond. His aching muscles defensively tensed up. He couldn’t relive this… He _couldn’t_! He tried to fight. Tried to speak, but he couldn’t seem to move… It was like watching a terrible movie scene unfold with no way to stop the inevitable from happening…

“Well, Johnny, who’s it going to be?” his father presently asked, his voice taking on a slow, sinister echo, “Me… or… yer mum?”

It was then when the scream lodged in his throat broke loose… and he screamed… and screamed… and screamed…

A sudden wave of heavy, mind-disabling pain collapsed upon him and he grew silent, feeling resultantly even less in tune with reality… He couldn’t even remember why it was he’d been screaming in the first place. Perhaps, he’d had some kind of nightmare…

Lethargically, he glanced about him, the unfamiliarity of his settings suddenly sinking in with a vengeance. Where was he? All around him, hazy barren walls crept into view along with a paneled ceiling and a linoleum floor. Nothing looked remotely familiar… Bloody hell. Was this some kind of _institution_??

‘ _Just as well, Lennon…_ ’ an unattached voice took the moment of silence to assert, ‘ _Yer more or less, being committed… It’s no wonder, really; you’ve had it coming for a long time, now…_ ’But he _wasn’t_ being committed, was he? _Was_ he? Christ, he was raving mad, wasn’t he? And finally the world had realized it… ‘ _And why shouldn’t the world realize it_? _You’ve never been sane, Lennon. Your world’s been messed up since the day you were born_ …’ The voice was beginning to sound a bit like his own now, ‘ _Your dad couldn’t stand the sight of you once you chose your mum over him; your mum couldn’t even begin to handle you_ … _You weren’t wanted then, you’re not wanted now_. _Admit it_ … _It’s about time it all caught up to you…_ ’

“S’not true…” John repeated softly… “Bloody ‘ell, s’not _true!!!!_ ”

There was no contradictory response; making it all seem somehow all the more solidified and realistic… John was suddenly beside himself. He _belonged_ in an institute… It was one John Lennon against the seemingly inescapable…

“Why don’t ye’ cut the sorry act, Johnny?” a voice, entirely separate from his mind, abruptly stated, cutting through the bit of haze that stubbornly surrounded him… Or _was_ it his mind? Somehow, John couldn’t quite figure it out… “You’re quite better than that, you know…”

 _Act_? John found that he could hardly talk… nor could he see who it was, he was attempting to reply to…

“ _Yes_ , act…”

A barely present hand brushed across the top of his head in a manner that proved the gentlest he’d experienced since… since… He couldn’t remember when last… He bristled suddenly with incontrollable suspicion, his distrustful nature kicking in. Despite the very real emotions, “ _Wha_ …?” was all he could bring forth, and croakily at that…

“Why don’t you take a gander, yourself, lad?” his spectator chuckled.

Jadedly, John shifted his gaze about him, his eyes seeking out answers to questions barely asked… The controller of the voice suddenly manifested before him and, after a while, he saw that standing in front of him was the undeniable form of his uncle… His Uncle George to be exact…

Eyes wide in a mix of instant fear and alarm, John frantically shook his head to clear it, forcing himself to overlook the perpetual wooziness, threatening to bind him to darkness… To his utter dismay, the man patiently remained in his line of vision, an amused smile on his face. John frowned at this. It was becoming quite obvious by this point that he was, more or less, cracking up. ‘ _It’s no wonder yer being committed_ ,’ his mind stated scornfully. _Jesus Christ_ …

His uncle’s smile of amusement widened, “‘Ello, Johnny-boy,” he greeted him, softly and gently. His voice sounded just as it should. Everything John had remembered it to be…

“What… what are you doing ‘ere?” John demanded in confusion, attempting to sit up, but floundering miserably.

“A deceased man can’t pay a visit to his still living nephew?” his uncle chuckled, another sound vaguely familiar to John’s ears. It was all becoming very convincing… _Very_ real as though the man hadn’t yet ever passed…

John frowned, nearly rendered speechless. “Well… that’s exactly it… I think… Where’d ye’ come from?”he went on to ask. _And what was going on here_? Why did this scenario seem so familiar? Perhaps he’d seen it a movie before… or read it in a book…

Uncle George lifted a hand and gestured to the top of John’s head, “Y’left the door open, lad!” he simply responded with a smile.

“ _What_?” Unwelcome confusion and wooziness still swirling around his muddled mind, John found himself shaking his head in attempt to ward off such feelings, “ _What_ door?”

“No need to trouble yer ‘ead about it,” his uncle stated, still smiling.

John’s frown lengthened, “Y’can’t be ‘ere! This is all wrong!! They’ll think me mad. I’m bloody mad, aren’t I?”

“Don’t be daft. Yer mother visited you earlier, did she not?” his uncle questioned.

John’s frown lengthened even more at the unwanted and temporarily forgotten memory, “Yeah… I suppose she did…” _That was it_! There was the answer… His _mum_ was why this was all so bloody familiar… He blinked groggily, wincing as a severe amount of pain, foraged its way through his hazy mind, making unwanted contact with the pain receptors of his brain…

“Not feeling too well, are you lad?” his Uncle George asked; sympathy present in his voice.

John shrugged indifferently.

“Of course you aren’t. I don’t think I ever found you to be this gobsmacked while I was still alive…”

John shrugged again, not quite sure what else to do, “Well, it’s not every day yer dead mum and uncle come to visit…”

His uncle laughed richly and good-naturedly and John blinked, still hopelessly confused, “What are ye’ _really_ doing ‘ere?” he asked.

“I’ve only just arrived, Johnny. You can’t tell me y’want me to leave already!”

John frowned, “I didn’t say…”

“I suppose I’ve always had that natural effect on people,” his uncle laughed, “You do remember, Johnny, don’t you? I do believe it was my humor people questioned most.”

John didn’t bother respond. His uncle wasn’t that far off, really. In a way, he wasn’t sure he wanted him here. Nostalgia was beginning to set in… and truthfully, he felt crappy enough…

Uncle George waited patiently, expectantly, “Well, haven’t you anything to say to me, boy?”

John shifted his lackluster gaze past him out a darkened window, finding it a bit harder with each growing second to look his uncle in the eye. “Why burst me own bubble? Yer just gonna leave like me mum… like all the others…”

“Still such a cynic…” His uncle laughed as though the revelation was merely funny.

John didn’t see the humor. “Well, life has a funny way of shaping people…” he muttered, still avoiding his uncle’s prying eyes. He found a loose thread on the edge of the topmost sheet draped across him and idly began playing with it.

George reached out to affectionately ruffle his hair. “Johnny, Johnny… what’s the matter, boy? Hasn’t Mimi been good to you?”

John uncontrollably clenched a fist and glared at the older man, “Who’s talking about Mimi? What about you? What about everyone else?”

Uncle George shook his head in dismay, “ _Such_ anger, Johnny… That fever of yours must be frying your brain…”

“Are ye’ even listening to me?!!” John yelled, “No of course not. _Nobody_ gives a shit about John Lennon… It’s why they dumped me off at this… this…” He gestured about himself, “… _prison_ …” He shook his head, after a while as though accepting his fate. “‘S’all right. I don’t much care, really…”

“You’re in a hospital, lad, not a prison. Now if you’re wise, as I know you are, you’ll buck up and turn a bit of that misplaced anger into strength. You might be out of here tomorrow but you’re going to need quite a bit of extra vigor for the long battle ahead… Trust me.” Uncle George paused and laid a loving hand atop John’s head with a sad smile, “…I can only hope that I’ve given you the lift you need…” Before the distressed young adult could put in a word edgewise, he disappeared before his very eyes.

There was a sudden ripple in reality, and next thing John knew, he was on his back, staring vaguely at the white paneled ceiling above him. An opaque haze continued to eat at his vision as a group of figures stared down at him, looking somewhat like angels draped in white… Everything was white… and he was soaking wet… Why was that?

“Thank goodness… his temperature’s finally within secured range,” one of the figures spoke in utmost relief.

“Are you all right, John? Can you hear me?” John could just make out the form of a doctor as he gently proceeded to tap the side of his face.

John started to respond, but thought better of it, managing a weak and tired nod instead. As much as his head still ached, his throat ached more and he wasn’t quite sure he could speak without further irritating it.

A nurse proceeded to sponge his face, removing excess amounts of sweat from it… Almost instantly, he started to shiver, his heavily soaked-through clothing finally getting to him…

“I’ll get you a dry gown and some fresh sheets, John,” the nurse stated with a smile, “Will you be in need of assistance?”

John shook his head… “I think I’ll be all right on me own…” he managed to croak out. All he wanted to do was sleep. Unable to fight any longer, he inadvertently made the mistake of closing his heavy eyes as the nurse disappeared to fulfill his request.He wasn’t sure if or when he ever received any of the items he awaited on… Within a matter of seconds, he was asleep… completely oblivious to any further conversation issued by his caretakers…

“Hopefully, whatever it is he’s fighting off, he’ll be all right enough by tomorrow… preferably by the time he’s to be discharged.”

“I’m not sure it would be wise to discharge him, doctor. We’re still not sure if it’s the flu we’re dealing with and…”

“Regardless, I don’t believe you have much of a say! This is infamous Beatle John Lennon we’re dealing with in case you weren’t aware. Unless you’re looking to be on the receiving end of a lawsuit, it is best we do whatever it is, his managers prefer…”

 


	19. Not a Second Time

As a result of Epstein’s constant and persistent badgering, Mal arrived early to the hospital at approximately 6 o’clock as planned to collect the band’s ailing rhythm guitarist. Having found his way to the establishment’s information booth, he was eventually directed towards the hospital discharge station to await his release while filling out the required paperwork. The road manager was, meanwhile, notified of John’s condition, past and current; all of which consisting of troubling details that all but made him feel secure about ripping him from the environment. According to staff, the musician had been subject to a rough and turbulent night, his first real amount of sleep not occurring till a mere three hours ago. His temperature had dropped, however, and was now holding steady at 100.1. Test results remained uncertain, and as far as it showed, it was still unclear whether John was harboring the flu or something far worse. They didn’t really want to discharge him yet. Mal could see that much… But unfortunately, Eppy was holding true to his plans and wasn’t leaving much in the way of time for all indefinites to become clarified.

“They’ve had quite a bit of time with him, already,” Epstein sighed remorsefully into the phone, following a phone call put in by Mal, “We simply can’t allow them anymore unless we’re to endanger everything that this day has to offer.”

While Mal wasn’t entirely sure whether he truly agreed with Eppy’s take on the subject, he had stated his understanding and brought forth the bit of information to John’s caretakers. They weren’t happy with the news but there wasn’t much that could be done, otherwise.

A half an hour later, a rather ornery John was brought out to Mal in a wheel chair by a nurse who was trying especially hard to smooth something over that he was clearly up in arms about, “I don’t need the bloody wheelchair,” he was growling, “I look like a cripple to ye’? I oughta _cripple_ the bloke responsible fer such bollocks…”

“It’s hospital protocol, Mr. Lennon. Please understand. You may not _feel_ weak, but you’re sick and it would look terrible on our part if we allowed for something to happen to you on your way out.”

“So it’s all to cover yer own arse, then, is it?” John snapped, glaring up at her.

The nurse shook her head and gratefully handed the irritable musician over to Mal. She disappeared from sight as soon as she was free to do so.

“I’ve left the name, address, and room number of the hotel we’ll be staying at in New Jersey,” Mal told John’s primary hospital caretaker, “If you could forward the test results, we’d greatly appreciate it.”

“That was the plan,” the doctor smiled, “You should hear from us at some point during the day, regardless of whether the results are good or bad. That way nothing gets lost in translation.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Mal responded with a grateful smile.

“Our pleasure. It’s been an honor to have John Lennon here in our care.”

“ _Who’s_ honor?” John muttered quietly, a bit of hostility creeping into his voice, “First time _I’m_ ‘earing about this.”

Mal shook his head apologetically, “Don’t take his words to heart. He’s a bit more difficult than usual when he’s sick… and he’s not the biggest fan of hospitals, really.”

The doctor waved it off, unfazed, “Most people could relate,” he smiled understandingly, “But, _really_ , it’s been an honor for us whether John realizes it or not.”

“Ta…” John mumbled, lifting his eyes fleetingly up to him. There was a hint of a small appreciative smile there, to which the doctor returned uncertainly.

“Means thank you,” Mal clarified.

“Oh… well in that case you’re welcome! Best of luck and health to all of you!” The doctor turned and left, onto his next order of business.

“Right… well, let’s get ye’ back to the hotel, Lennon,” Mal stated, turning to smile at him.

“Don’t act like yer doing me a bloody favor…” John grumpily responded as Mal assumed control of his wheel chair.

Mal ignored him. “So, how’re ye’ feeling this morning?” he asked, rather than feed into Lennon’s set traps.

“… Like I ‘aven’t slept in years…” John grumbled bitterly, “Bet everyone else is bloody well rested… They didn’t ‘ave t’sleep in a bloody prison…” Before Mal could comment any further, he hastily added, “Can we just get out of ‘ere? I’d rather leave ‘fore the press finds me and all ‘ell breaks loose…”

“Hospital security’s been on the lookout. Transfer will be smooth and quick.”

“Great,” John sighed, rubbing absently at his forehead. “…I wanna sleep… Hope y’don’t plan on talking the whole way back…”

“Still feeling pretty lousy, eh?” Mal asked, slight concern permeating his voice.

“Perception goes a long way fer ye’, doesn’t it?” was John’s response of sarcasm.

A sleepy John was assisted into Mal’s awaiting car, and keeping any delays minimal, he started the engine and prepared to make his way back towards the hotel. He’d barely gotten a proper grip on the key in the ignition when he noticed that John had already fallen asleep-- almost too quickly for Mal’s comfort. Swayed by unspecified building worry, he found himself bringing a hand to the sleeping lad’s forehead. Warmth… No doubt, he’d feel warm. A temperature of 100.1, though not disconcertingly alarming, was still significantly elevated… Mal sighed and backed the car out from its parking space… If John’s health continued to decline, they’d certainly have their work cut out for them… once again…

Even while driving, Mal found he could hardly keep his eyes off the blatantly still ailing musician. Though his face had lost most of the feverish flush that had persistently held him hostage all the past day, he was still decidedly pale and clearly every bit as tired as he had earlier stated. He knew already for a fact, that Brian wouldn’t like what he saw the minute he set eyes on John, but he’d overlook it, trading all feelings of concern for any gratefulness he could readily root up. ‘ _He’s functioning a lot better than he was last night_ ,’ he’d point out, ‘ _and he doesn’t seem to be vomiting every thirty minutes_. _Should count for something, right_?’

Mal, _at least_ , hoped that John wouldn’t be vomiting as much as he’d been. Last night had been downright awful… It was no wonder, really, that the poor bloke was knackered and feeling off still. And the fact that he still had a bit of a temperature and slept little on top of it all couldn’t be helping matter all that much. Perhaps sleep and a good meal would give him the boost he’d need to take on events this day would have in store. He’d have to take it easy, as well… Tap into a bit of that infamous, fluctuating well of laziness that could sometimes prove maddening to others.

A mere half hour later found Mal pulling the car over towards the hotel’s front entrance. With barely a breath in between, he turned off the engine and proceeded to wake John from his sound slumber. The rhythm guitarist, clearly unhappy with his sleep disruption, mumbled something incomprehensible that may or may not have consisted of a series of fiery swears. Mal wasn’t certain, nor was he interested in finding out word for word. “We’re ‘ere, Johnny,” he revealed, trying especially hard to keep the concern from oozing from his voice, “Yer all right?”

Reluctant, tired eyes fluttered open, signifying alertness… as diminished as it seemed. “Can’t I sleep ‘ere till we’re ready t’leave?” he whined.

Mal frowned. As pushy and manipulative as John could sometimes get, he wasn’t normally one to whine. “No, John, ye’ need to come in, eat something, and wash up…” he sternly stated.

The Beatle groaned and reluctantly eased himself up from his seat. Midway through the act, he winced, paling dramatically all the while.

“What’s the matter?” Mal demanded worriedly.

“Bloody ‘eadache from… ‘ell…” John mumbled wearily…

“I’ll give ye’ something for it when we get in,” Mal responded, “Then after a meal, and a decent shower, you’ll be allowed to sleep it off if ye’ can… all right?”

“I hope so…” John murmured; his croaky voice barely audible, “…Feel sick…”

“Sick?” Mal questioned, “Sick, how so, exactly? Nauseous?”

John miserably nodded.

Mal heaved a sigh, “Oh boy… Well… let’s get ye’ in. Perhaps, you’ll feel better after a meal.”

John didn’t even bother with a response. Mal guided him in through the front entrance and into the elevator, not failing to notice how shaky and weak he seemed all of a sudden. Taking care to help support him, he pressed the necessary buttons and up they went to the floor of destine. Within seconds, he had his key in the lock and skillfully managed to open the door all while John leaned tiredly against him.

“Good morning, sunshines!” Ringo sang, rising up and hurrying over to greet them as a visibly troubled Mal entered the suite with a blatantly knackered John trailing lazily behind him.

“Good morning, Ritch,” Mal responded distractedly.

As Mal hurriedly moved off to express his pending concerns with Eppy, John only stood there in front of the door, offering the drummer a blank stare.

Ringo’s smile immediately faded at his mate’s lack of vibrancy, “Ye’ all right, Johnny?” he worriedly asked, “Christ, what’d they bloody do to ye’?”

“I look that bad, eh?” John quietly questioned, trying his best to display some kind of a smile or smirk… anything… He succeeded finally at an unconvincing, half-hearted smirk.

John’s two other band mates were already set at the kitchen table in the middle of breakfast, Eppy having joined in at some point. Most everything was touched and half-eaten and crumbs were scattered everywhere, some even present in George’s hair. John didn’t even want to begin to wonder how that had happened. The incessantly hungry git had probably gone Tasmanian devil all over the table top, drooling and all, like the looney tune that he was.

John’s stomach churned repulsively at the mess and disarray in front of him. _This_ was what he had to come back to… Slowly, he made his way towards the counter and leaned upon it, distributing some of his body weight away from his rubbery-feeling, wearied legs.

Paul watched him warily. Though he hadn’t yet addressed the rhythm guitarist, there were infinite amounts of worry and sympathy racing through his veins. Concern he knew John wouldn’t outwardly respond well to, had he just gone and stated what was most plaguing his entire mindset. ‘ _Christ, ye’ look like shit_!!’ he was somehow most obligated to blurt out,‘ _What the fuck’s on with you_?’ The way Lennon currently looked to him, the bassist had the feeling he’d probably end up with a black eye for such menacing words. “So, how’re ye’ feeling, Johnny?” Paul presently asked from the table, looking up at him in as nonchalant a way as possible.

George followed his gaze with genuine interest.

“Knackered…” John mumbled, still staring absently at the disgusting mess the table had to offer.

“Y’look it!” George bluntly pointed out, “I mean, y’don’t look good, Lennon!”

John’s eyes narrowed heavily and he appeared to sag slightly in stance, struggling blatantly to fight surfacing feelings of contempt towards George’s misplaced wording. “Yer one to talk, Harrison…” he retorted scornfully, “Y’looking to start some kind of fad with the bloody crumbs scattered about yer ‘ead?”

Ringo laughed. George’s eyes widened in confusion before a blush ate at his face, “I didn’t mean anything by that, Johnny… Just that--”

“Save it,” Lennon snapped, “Leave me be. I don’t fucking feel good.”

George fell silent and anxiously attempted to busy himself in an act of brushing the crumbs free from his hair with his finger tips. A scant amount of attention was paid to where the additional mess was ending up…

“Not _on_ the _table_ , y’silly git!” Paul protested in disgust, taking his chance to jump at the lead guitarist, “You’ll get yer blasted ‘air everywhere!”

“Sod off, McCartney,” George grumbled. He obediently backed away from the table, however, and continued his act at a safe distance.

“It’s almost 7:30, John,” Eppy pointed out, his gaze seeking out the distressed musician seemingly for the first time since he’d arrived. He gestured to the dining table and an empty chair beside George, “‘Ave a seat and grab something to eat.”

“Sounds like a song in the making,” John smirked at him, his eyes lacking any real humor. He didn’t, however, move to take the offered seat. The thought of being within five feet of food threatened to bring up bile. “Time’s declining and s’not like there’s much that ‘ _Bottomless_ George’ ‘asn’t already ‘elped himself to…” he stated hoarsely, hoping his biting words were a valid enough excuse not to join in on the mess.

“If it’s time yer worried about, ye’ needn’t worry. We’ve still got quite a bit,” Mal explained, debunking that much of his constructed rebellion, “Everything’s just about packed and ready to go. The sooner ye’ eat, the sooner I’ll produce something for that ‘eadache of yours.”

“Ye’ didn’t say _before_ that I’d ‘ave to _eat_ first,” John pouted, tired eyes beginning to portray true misery.

“Well, you do. Y’don’t need to upset yer stomach anymore than it’s been.”

“ _Y’still_ got that ‘eadache, Johnny?” Paul asked, worriedly.

John frowned and started to reply only to falter majorly as a wave of dizziness reared its ugly head. He swayed slightly on his feet and found himself, grabbing the edge of the counter for support. “Sure thing, Macca,” he muttered dryly after a while, “What’s _new_ with ye’?”

Paul didn’t miss the subtle waver in his friend’s balance nor the accompanying pallor in his face. When was the last time the guitarist had even _eaten_ a hearty meal— one that he hadn’t heaved up hours later? He couldn’t imagine the hospital food being that great, either… “Up for some brekky?” he offered, gesturing to the mess that cluttered the kitchen table.

“Maybe a bit later,” John murmured without conviction.

“Any later and it won’t be breakfast anymore,” Ringo pointed out, referring to the declination of time, “Y’should _really_ eat, Johnny.”

“It barely stands as breakfast, as it is,” John mumbled, gazing with ample repulsion at the table. A feeling of nausea continued to surge within him, “Really, m’not hungry.”

“Still, you should try and take something in,” Eppy sternly enforced, “You’ll need all the energy today. There’s a lot taking place.”

“It won’t do any good…” John allowed his voice to trail off. A familiar greenish tint had taken his face hostage.

“Y’feeling all right?” Paul skeptically and worriedly demanded of him.

“S’not feeling a hundred percent still, I guess…” John mumbled.

“Didn’t they give you any meds? It’s a bloody hospital for crying out loud!” Paul spat.

John shrugged, “I don’t know…” he stated uncertainly, “… I’ll be all right with a bit of time…”

Paul frowned… “Are ye’ sure? Yer worrying me still…”

“‘M’just tired, really…” John weakly explained, “Slept pretty lousy last night… Sometimes makes ye’ feel a bit sick the following morning when yer _forced_ immorally from yer bed…”

Paul nodded in his direction, “I know the feeling. Y’get so little sleep, ye’ wake up feeling sick… Of course yer already sick so… can’t really help matters for ye’, any…”

“Yer bed couldn’t ‘ave been much in the way of comfort, either,” Ringo sympathized knowingly, “I don’t remember them ever being easy t’sleep on.”

John grimaced reactively, “… Explains why m’bloody sorer than Eppy after a night in with his lover…” he muttered flatly.

“How about some tea, then, John?” Ringo offered, “Got some right ‘ere with yer name on it. Or I could whip up a batch of something specific you may want? Mint tea, perhaps? Won’t take away the aches and pains but might ‘elp settle yer stomach…”

“Yeah… sure… whatever…” John mumbled absently, flopping down finally into a chair beside George at the kitchen table.

“Hurry up and serve something, Ritch,” Eppy hastily ordered, “Time _really_ is diminishing before our very eyes!”

“Right!” Ringo jumped to attention with a playful salute.

John staved off a yawn, idly watching as Ringo fluttered about the kitchen like something of a maid, “Water’s hot so it shouldn’t be long!” he sang out, “It won’t be long, yeah… yeah… yeah…” he proceeded to sing out loud, “It won’t be long, yeah… yeah… yeah…”

John looked visibly pained by his rendition of their song, “Bloody ‘ell, shurrup, would ye’?” he muttered grumpily, “There’s a bloody reason ye’ weren’t selected t’sing that bloody song …”

“Why not?” Ringo grinned at him, unfazed by his sharpened tongue, “I think I give it the necessary flair it deserves.”

“The only thing yer giving _anything, anywhere_ , is me a ‘eadache…” John stated, blinking resultantly at the lack of structured sense that just came from his mouth.

“Y’already had one, so there!” Ringo playfully stuck his tongue out at him.

John frowned, “Shurrup then, before it gets worse…” he muttered quietly.

“I still think you should consume something other than tea, Lennon…” George enforced, staring at him now in increased concern, “Ye’ ‘aven’t eaten since yesterday and most everything ye’ ate, ye’ threw right back up.”

“Tea counts for starters,” Ringo pointed out, “It’s _much_ better than nothing.”

John allowed for his head to meet the table in front of him, not seeming to hear or care for that matter that words were being cast in his direction. Ringo moved to pour him a cup of freshly brewed tea from a teapot, separate from the one already in use. “Here y’go, Johnny…”

John proceeded to close his eyes.

“Johnny… ‘ey, mate…” Ringo moved to gently jostle him.

The rhythm guitarist reluctantly lifted his head and gazed tiredly into Ringo’s worried blue eyes. “Ta…” he murmured, finally enclosing a hand protectively around the mug.

Ringo frowned, “Y’sure yer gonna be all right today, Lennon?” Without waiting for the slightest response, he shoved a hand beneath John’s bangs and pressed it against his forehead. “Yer kind of warm, really…”

“Of course he is,” Mal piped up, “He was discharged with a 100.1 degree temperature.”

Ringo frowned out of sympathy this time around, “Drink up, Johnny,” he urged, “No sense in ye’ drying out all over again…”

John nodded and obediently took a sip, his hands shaking slightly, “Could I ‘ave some aspirin, now?” he asked, glancing beseechingly in Mal’s direction.

Mal nodded and eased himself up from the dining table. “Try and eat some toast, at least,” he wisely advised, “I’d rather not give you anything on an empty stomach. Liquids may not be enough to save ye’ from a rude awakening.”

“Spare me the bloody act of concern, Mal,” John snapped irritably, “I already feel like shit… How much worse could it bloody get?”

“You’d be surprised. We _could_ ‘ave a repeat of yesterday. Toast or no aspirin,” the road manager sternly affirmed before leaving the room.

“Are we almost ready?” Epstein asked, in the silence that followed Mal’s unalterable final say.

“I need a bath…” was the only response he received courtesy of Lennon.

Epstein’s eyes softened as they landed on him, “Of course. Why don’t you hurry up and draw one, then… The rest of us will begin to transport our belongings to the awaiting vehicle. I’ll make sure to leave your change of clothes nearby.”

John nodded wearily. Christ. If he thought yesterday was god-awful, someone should’ve taken the time to introduce him to _today_ …

Things shifting into sudden overdrive once again; no one noticed that John didn’t get around to tackling a piece of toast, nor did he actually manage to finish his tea.


	20. Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da

Following the rather drawn-out standard procedure that would normally adhere to typical hotel evacuation, three-fourths of the Beatles plus one very antsy Eppy eventually found themselves situated within a limo, ready to set course for an entirely new destination. It had been a particularly trying morning already; filled to the brim with concerns, anxieties, frustrations, and moodiness. And as a result, each and every one of them were more than eager, desperate even, to leave it all behind in hopes that they’d be able to, before long, embrace something else. Something completely whole and refreshingly new. Something they could hopefully find in the mysterious state of New Jersey. Had it been up to Eppy or even Paul, they’d have left quite some time ago. But currently, they waited on George who’d five minutes ago, announced his need of the loo. Eppy couldn’t be any more displeased over the inconvenience of such timing but there had been nothing that he’d been able to do or say that would openly have convinced the adamant lead guitarist otherwise.

Seemingly endless minutes had ticked down since… and he was _still_ nowhere to be seen. The excess amount of waiting around was all but doing the pending day justice. It granted each Beatle and Eppy more time to think and overanalyze everything than they could bear. Such consequences were doing all but upping the already questionable levels of enthusiasm surrounding the group as a whole.

Ringo seemed to be the least bit outwardly bothered by anything and everything this morning. As a result, this current predicament ran off him like water cast from the steepest roof. Both Paul and Eppy proved to be the most anxious of all, their eyes practically glued to their watches. They gave off the essence of stallions raring to go, eager for a good run. John, who’d been strangely quiet for a good portion of the morning, was growing noticeably restless and fidgety all the time. The growing look of agitation within his haggard eyes said it all.

“Nine minutes since he’s been inside now…” Ringo announced presently.

John shifted in his seat, looking beyond uncomfortable. “Well, if _this_ is going to rival Paul’s longest trip to the loo, then I’m going back in meself to catch a kip…” he muttered sulkily, “I feel like shit still…”

“Stay put, Lennon.” Eppy ordered, “You don’t need to complicate things any more than they already are. We’ve told ye’ already that yer perfectly free to catch a kip in ‘ere should ye’ feel the need.”

John scowled.

“It’s official,” Ringo proclaimed, taking a moment to glance briefly at the watch hugging his wrist, “Geo’s officially been at the loo fer longer than ten minutes.”

John found himself rolling his eyes as he stared out the window he had eased himself up against, “Well, isn’t this strangely familiar…” he mumbled sardonically, turning casually to offer a glare in Paul’s direction.

The bassist, seated beside him, refused to meet his gaze.

Ringo laughed. “He’s gonna beat yer longest record at this point, Macca. Remember that time we all thought y’fell in?”

“‘S’not me fault they were out of toilet paper!” Paul responded indignantly, turning his entire face slightly away from any searching eyes in attempt to mask a blush rapidly spreading across the apples of his cheeks.

“What do ye’ suppose he’s doing in there, anyway?” Ringo wondered aloud, allowing ‘perfect’ Paul the change of subject he knew he was desperately craving.

“Wanking off to one of Paul’s photographs, no doubt,” John responded offhandedly, a wicked grin recently infrequent in nature spreading across his face.

Paul arched an eyebrow at him portraying forth his lack of amusement, “Like how Eppy does with all of yers?” he retorted, returning his comment with a smug look of his own.

“How would _ye’_ know who Eppy wanks off to?” Ringo asked, turning to Paul with impossibly wide eyes of interest, “Are ye’ usually present at these wanking sessions of his?”

“ _Present_?” John scoffed, “‘E probably sits in and lends a hand…” He turned to face Eppy finally with an impish smirk, “Isn’t that _right_ , Brian?”

“Aren’t you feeling ill, Lennon?” Eppy grumbled, turning to face him with a glower of pronounced displeasure.

John blinked, looking momentarily caught off guard. “ _Why_? Did ye’ hear otherwise…?” he responded derisively.

“Could ‘ave fooled me with the way yer suddenly acting,” Eppy snapped. He sat back with arms sternly crossed against his chest, half expecting a retaliation of some sort, but John looked away, suddenly seeming distracted.

“Here they come!” Ringo announced, somewhat cheerfully, “ _Finally_!”

“What?” Paul ripped his gaze away from John where it had momentarily landed following the musician’s sudden and unexpected change of demeanor.

“Georgie!”

Paul followed Ringo’s gaze. Sure enough the lead guitarist was approaching them, trailing several feet behind Mal.

“Well he’s not very urgent about it,” Eppy commented. He impatiently moved to roll down the window nearest Ringo, “Let’s go, Geo!” he called urgently, “Chivvy along! We’re running late!”

The guitarist obediently quickened his pace but it seemed to Paul that he didn’t really want to. He rather looked a bit pale, actually… Perhaps, it was the lighting.

“Well, this is it, lads! Say your final goodbyes!” Mal announced as he entered the limo cabin lastly behind George. “Are we all ready to go?”

“ _Been_ ready…” John grumbled, lethargically turning his head to glare wordlessly in Harrison’s direction as he squeezed into the open slot beside Ringo claiming for himself, the remaining window seat the limo had to offer.

Eppy glanced nervously at his watch as Mal settled in beside him on the row of seating opposite the Beatles, “We’ve better hurry. We’re running late as is!”

John lazily turned his gaze on Eppy with significantly decreased interest, a blatant swing in character from what he was just earlier showing, “Late?” he found himself scoffing, “Who are ye’, the white rabbit from… from…” He frowned finding he couldn’t entirely remember what it was he was beginning to get at. “…What’s that book called?” he dully asked no one in particular, a significant sluggish lack of grace presenting itself with his inquiry.

Paul arched an eyebrow at him, “‘Alice in Wonderland’?”                                                   

John greeted him with a blank stare. “No… that’s not it…”

“Well, which white rabbit are you talking about?” Ringo inquired.

“The one from… the one from… Alice… in… Wonderland…” John faltered, slowly coming to the obvious realization himself. He… may as well have just crowned himself dunce of the entire United Kingdom… the world even… He blinked blearily, finding he was having a bit of trouble processing such information.

“All right, John?” Ringo found himself asking in a bit of surprise mixed with concern, “Y’know that’s yer _favorite_ book right?”

Desperate to combat his obvious deterioration in wit, John flat-out ignored him; his attention, even more decreased this time around, turning back to Eppy, “What are ye’ the… the…” _Fuck_ …What was it again? _Bloody fucking hell_ … “…Never mind…” he grumbled, turning to look away in an air of disenchantment. So much for the speedy quip he was certain he’d had within his grasp.

“Ye’ all right?” Paul asked taking Ringo’s initial question into his own hands, concern similar to Ringo’s beginning to eat, once again, at the back of his mind.

John turned to him with fleeting jaded eyes. “Peachy.”

“Well, we’re off, then.” Eppy announced, his voice seeming to originate from somewhere in the distance.

As the limo pulled away from the hotel grounds, John found himself casting his tired gaze out the window from the seat he’d been granted, courtesy of McCartney. The bassist had insisted on him having the window seat while insisting that a scenery-deprived George would be the one to have the other, “Plenty of space for you to catch a kip if ye’ should feel the need. Ritch and I, we’ll manage,” he’d stated, “We’re the picture of health, y’know!”

John had scowled at him, “Lucky you,” he’d muttered dismissively before turning away. There it had been. Proof that the bassist thought he’d been doing him a bloody favor. John _hated_ favors he didn’t beforehand agree to. Especially favors that dared to, as a result, portray any signs of weaknesses he may or may not be battling in strictly black and white.

“You’d be wise to take advantage of this generosity-inspired opportunity, John,” Eppy had put in, “Once we really get going, aside from the plane ride, chances to sleep will be limited.”

 _Joy_ … John had thought… When had he managed to hear _that_ before? Once again, _everyone_ seemed to think they knew what was best for him yet no one had a clue where his problems even began… He had turned to Paul who’d returned his glance with ample amounts of concern. His eyes had been pleading as though willing him inwardly to try and better his body somehow, as though he had the key for such far-fetched phenomenon. Bloody ridiculous, really. If John had this ‘ _key_ ’, so to speak, he most certainly wouldn’t be wasting his time feeling as though he was rapidly approaching his deathbed. “Y’look like shit, y’git,” Paul had uncharacteristically resorted to saying, “M’not sure how our New Jersey fans would take to yer newly acquired look.”

“Yeah?” John had felt like responding, “Well, m’not sure how yer precious fans would respond to yer newly acquired broken face!” He hadn’t bothered to grace him with this retort or any retort for that matter. Mainly because he hadn’t felt like it, really. It didn’t matter. None of it did. It wouldn’t change things. It wouldn’t change the present and it most certainly wouldn’t change yesterday. As much as he hated to come to terms with it, he felt even more out-of-place in his own body than even yesterday. Considerably lost… Ask him who John Lennon was and he’d simply falter… Stumble over the answer as though he was an imposter. His fevered, aching mind just didn’t have what it took to keep above water any longer it felt like. He was drowning… Drowning within his own body… Possibly sicker than he’d initially realized… Perhaps _dyin_ — He stopped himself right them before he could even begin to complete such a repulsive thought. He _was_ only sick… No need to jump to conclusions, no matter how predominant they seemed to make themselves within the confines of his twisted mind… No matter what the stupid doctors said he had— once they were able to pull their heads out from their arses long enough to figure it out. Maybe he’d just sit back and be optimistic for once… After so many years of hanging with Paul… something had to have rubbed off.

John actually smiled as he considered such a thing… But as usual for him, pessimism was right around the corner. How _could_ he bloody well even begin to compare himself to the likes of Paul what with the bassist’s optimistic abilities being so painfully unnatural? He wasn’t Paul… He was John Lennon. John Lennon, whose health and sanity seemed to be evaporating at a disquieting pace. John Lennon, who couldn’t even _begin_ to figure out what was going wrong with himself enough to render himself even the least bit functional in bringing the mystery to its needed end… If _that_ wasn’t nerve-wracking, he didn’t know what was… but then again, the _doctors_ couldn’t bloody well come to terms with his situation either, and clearly _they_ didn’t seem to be losing any sleep over it…

‘ _None of it really matters, Lennon_ ,’ his mind suddenly inserted itself, ‘ _Life’s gonna do what life’s gonna do and regardless of who or what you are, you can’t do a thing to change it_. _You of all thick-headed gits should know that… Sure you’d like to know what’s going on with you but why the hell should you be granted any insight_? _You might be famous but… yer still only John Lennon_ … _The same fucked up mess ye’ were well before anyone even gave a shit about who you were_ … _Life’s gonna do what life’s gonna do…_ ’ John cringed at the latter of stinging words originating from his insides… ‘ _Yeah, Lennon, ‘cause life’s been so pleasant to you, thus far_ …’ He sucked in a deep breath and choked on it, succumbing instantly to a rather violent coughing fit.

“Jesus Christ!” someone exclaimed seemingly without purpose. He felt a seemingly irrelevant hand slapping him across the back.

“John! Ye’ all right?”

The fit regulated itself within a matter of several more seconds and John cleared his throat indifferently as though he hadn’t just nearly hacked up a lung.

“John! _Hey_!”

 _Life’s gonna do what life’s gonna do… regardless of who or what you are… Yer still only John Lennon_ … _The same fucked up mess ye’ were well before anyone even gave a shit about who you were…_

The rhythm guitarist shook his head absently somehow managing to remain oblivious to the concerned eyes scattered about him. ‘ _It’s a blatant lose-lose situation then_ ,’ he tiredly concluded. Proof that he couldn’t change much if anything at all. _Life’s gonna do what life’s gonna do_. _Regardless of who or what you are, you can’t do a thing to change it_. Life certainly hadn’t waited around when expelling from it so many of his loved ones… _Yer still only John Lennon_ … _Why the hell should you be granted any insight_?

This not knowing thing— it was bloody terrifying… And with all that he’d been through so far, he wasn’t ever easily this terrified. Sure he was often subject to irrational insecurities… No one was ever completely exempt from such feelings… This, however, was a different kind of fear riding him … Something almost foreign. Something he couldn’t even begin to fathom. It was a desolate sort of fear… A fear that he’d only experienced twice before and hoped from then on he’d never experience again. Two major life-changing occurrences had yielded to such incomprehensible feelings. The death of his mum and the death of Stu. He shivered involuntarily at the comparison. So much death… Death was… Life was…

“ _John_!” Paul barked, his abrupt exclamation finally startling the rhythm guitarist from finishing the remaining tail end of his aimless thoughts. He found himself jumping again as an additional elbow met his left arm courtesy of Ringo. “What?” he questioned, almost testily.

“All right?” Ringo asked, his aquamarine eyes soft with worry.

“I’m _fine_!” John found himself hastily snapping, “ _Christ_ …a bloke comes home from an overnight stay at the hospital and everyone thinks he’s about to die or something!”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Paul demanded, bewildered by the unexpected origin of John’s sudden apprehensions.

“It… I…” John trailed off, suddenly unsure as to why he’d readily broadcasted such a thing.

“No one said anything of the sort!” Eppy followed up.

“Y’don’t ‘ave to! I’m sick of the bullshit and the lot of ye’ treating me like I’m about to bloody break in ‘alf!” John snapped, his barricaded frustrations bursting forth with uncontrollable force.

“Like it or not, we’re still concerned for your well-being,” Paul dryly confirmed, “Bless our human hearts.”

“Well, y’can cut the crap and call off the bloodhounds…” John mumbled, cleverly weaseling himself away from the bassist’s recently acquired troubled gaze, “I’ll be all right…”

Paul’s gaze hardened as he took in Lennon’s guarded face as he proceeded to turn it away from him. Something was off with him… and not just due to illness…

“Very well,” Eppy chose to wave away matters for the time being.

John longed to be anywhere else by this point. It didn’t matter where. Just so long as he was far away. Far from such distorted feelings… far away from this ‘ _self_ ’, he’d transformed into it without his own consent. A large part of him longed for the comfort of Cynthia’s arms while a seemingly separate and detached younger part of him; a part of him he’d normally kept permanently locked within the confines of his safe-like mind, ached for his mum. She’d hold him just as she used to whenever he was sick and stroke his hair and whisper the uplifting words he presently yearned. “I’ll let nothing happen to you, darling,” she’d coo over and over again until he found himself capable of truly believing. Her words- John used to think there was magic hidden in them. Upon hearing them, he’d feel better almost instantly. Whatever ailments he had would simply vanish… or would seem to vanish as she meanwhile rocked him to sleep. Little had he known that such words would eventually fail to possess true value. After all, life _had_ been good then… His mum _had_ been good… Until the one fateful day that she’d changed. His father walked out on them shortly after and before John had entirely known what was happening, his life ceased to be the same. It had changed completely from there on out… And _he’d_ changed permanently as a result… and not for the better… Such opinions weren’t even open for debate. He was a mess… a right mess… Still the fucked up mess he was well before anyone gave a shit about who he was. _Still only John Lennon_. And to add fuel to the literal fire already burning within him, his bloody head just wouldn’t stop hurting even long enough to grant him a minute’s worth of much-needed peace of mind… Perhaps it was due to the unavoidable, disabling, bitter negativity that had been in constant rule of his increasingly dilapidated mindset. Perhaps his body was simply trying to get him to off himself for whatever reasons. But aspirin was no longer helping… even a little bit.

No longer was the pain even reminiscent of the sickening painful throb he’d been released from the hospital with. _That_ had been near bliss in comparison to the heavier just as sickening—if not more so, unforgiving thudding that had taken up recent residence within his skull… A constant thud, thud, thud emulating the repeated, merciless blow of a blunt object to the back of his head… He almost wished there _was_ a blunt object involved as twisted as that was… Perhaps it would cast him from the stubborn grips of consciousness and as result, he most likely wouldn’t be aware of the recently restored equally painful chills choosing this very moment in time to rattle his bones…’ _Just try and sleep, Lennon_ …’ he mentally pleaded of himself, ‘ _even if you can’t shake the bloody chills and headache_ … _you could at least in turn make yourself somewhat useful_ … _and somewhat more sane…_ ’ _Hopefully_. Right at that very second, John felt as though his mentality, what was left of it that was, was completely and permanently vanishing at an alarming rate. He didn’t feel right… Aside from the sickness endlessly plaguing him, he felt completely out of sync… out of order… Really… just didn’t feel right… Lennon heaved a defeated sigh and allowed for his eyes to close.

“John, what is it?” someone blatantly demanded, almost too suddenly.

Was he dreaming already? Of course not. He’d only just closed his eyes. John cracked an eye open and gazed indolently in the direction of the spoken voice. Paul stared back at him, genuine concern holding his dark eyes captive. “What is what?” he mumbled incoherently.

“Yer shaking an awful lot!”

“Am I?” John tiredly lifted a hand and gaze at it, his mind registering the increased presence of tremors racing though it, “Fucking cold…” he mumbled sleepily.

Paul frowned.

“Check his temperature…” Mal gently suggested from across the limo, his apprehensive eyes fixated on Lennon’s face.

John closed his eyes as Paul settled the back of his hand against his mate’s forehead. “Christ, yer a bit hot, John…” he reported worriedly, a frown like a reverse rainbow crossing his face.

Both Eppy and Mal’s mouths twisted simultaneously in frowns of equal lengths. “Well, let him sleep until we can do a thing about it,” Mal sighed, “Perhaps sleep will help for the time being until I can get to the meds we have stored with our luggage.”

John groaned quietly, his eyes now squeezed tightly shut from what appeared to be pain.

“I think we should pull over now…” Paul affirmed at once, glancing to his best mate in ample unease.

“We’re trying to make up for lost time, Paul!” Eppy protested, his voice holding just as firm, “Don’t make this anymore difficult than it needs to be!”

“ _None_ of that matters!” Paul argued, this time catching the attention of Ringo and George who’d somehow been oblivious thus far.

“I don’t believe this,” Eppy sighed as he signaled for the driver to do as Paul insisted.

As soon as the limo slowed to a stop at the side of the busy road, Paul reached over Lennon and thrust the door open, taking care not to push it too far into any unsuspecting oncoming traffic. Just as suddenly as the door slid even the slightest bit ajar, Lennon’s head gravitated towards it and within seconds, he was dry heaving out on the side of the road.

Eppy was suddenly frantic with worry for the madness of the situation as he reluctantly came to terms with what was happening. Here they were. Four Beatles, two managers, and a driver, casually pulled over on the side of the road with nothing about them but cars speeding by, each and any one containing unknown passengers with unknown intentions. There was no telling what could happen if someone happened to catch sight of John Lennon, of all people, completely sick and vulnerable… out in the open… “Fer chrissakes, get him in ‘ere!” he shouted suddenly, unable to stand the insanity any longer.

Having been cajoling John all the while in a brotherly and affectionate fashion, Paul finally heaved a sigh and obediently helped to ease him back into the closed quarters of the limo.

As the rhythm guitarist sluggishly eased back into his seat, his head pounding a sickening amount, Mal hurriedly moved to close the door.

“Y’can’t do that!” Ringo asserted, his eyes wide, “What if he has to heave again!”

“We’ll get him to the nearest loo!” was Eppy’s exasperated and somewhat dismissive response, “We simply can’t allow ourselves to be in such compromising situations! We need to go!”

“Well, _someone_ _needs to go_ track down our things and find John’s meds first!” Paul snapped, crossing his arms stubbornly across his chest, “and if no one else does, then I will!” He pointed to John’s still shivering and pained form, “Look at him! It would be immoral to allow him to suffer continuously knowing we have any form of relief nearby.”

Eppy paled even more at the thought of McCartney exposing and endangering himself in the public eye as he’d readily suggested.

“Don’t be daft, Macca. I’ll do it,” Mal avowed, much to Eppy’s gratitude. Hurriedly, he threw open the side of the door away from the street and made his way towards the elongated front of the limo where some of their small items were being held. After five anxiety-filled minutes, he finally reentered the limo with a small bag, hurriedly shutting the door soundly behind him. At his command, the limo started up again and in almost hasty a nature, proceeded to ease back into traffic.

“What do we have here…?” Mal mumbled, beginning to rifle through bottles and bottles of prescription medications. He looked up suddenly, his gaze searching out John’s paled face, “Did you manage to eat something before we left?” he demanded.

“John?” Ringo inserted in the absence of his response.

“Hm?” John, having nearly fallen asleep on the spot, jolted to sudden attention.

“Have ye’ eaten yet today?”

“I… uh…” John hesitated only momentarily before reality of the situation clicked into place. No food intake meant no relief through meds… He needed meds… Had he eaten by this point? He hadn’t … had he? Upon coming to terms with the inconvenient revelation, his devious nature, slightly altered by illness, slipped into place, “Yeah… I think…” he murmured almost unconvincingly.

Mal’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, “What do y’mean, you _think_? _Did_ you or _didn’t_ you eat something?”

John painfully managed a nod, this time no hesitation present within his tired, heavy, burning eyes.

“You’d better be telling the truth. I’ve stressed it enough and you’ve experienced it more than you should have. These meds won’t make you feel the least bit better if you’ve got nothing inside of you beforehand…”

“He _‘as_ got nothing inside ‘im! Remember?” Ringo stepped in, “Whatever was there, ‘e’s just thrown up…”

“I wouldn’t even call that throwing up. That was more in the way of dry heaving,” Mal clarified, his eyes proceeding to narrow on John with even more suspicion, “You didn’t actually eat… did ye’?” he concluded knowingly, beginning to piece together the puzzle that Lennon had unwittingly presented to him.

John managed a slight unnerving grin of faint amusement, “Does tea count?”

“Of course not!” Paul mumbled, suddenly frustrated with the fact that John hadn’t taken the advice offered by any of them, “Why on earth wouldn’t you eat? Chances are, you’d probably be feeling a bit better by this point if ye’ had!”

John’s eyes narrowed upon Paul’s face, “I didn’t… I don’t feel well, y’stupid git,” he found the energy to snap, “Would _you_ eat?”

“George did when _‘e_ was sick,” Ringo piped up.

“He didn’t have a choice,” Paul affirmed managing a slight grin, “Ye’ did practically spoon-feed him, Ritch!”

“‘E _was_ always willing, nonetheless,” Ringo stated with a shrug.

“Well, I’m _not_ George!” John found himself barking in his own defense, “ _Precious_ George, ‘ad the flu… I don’t… I…” his voice, increasing in hoarseness, cracked and he quickly allowed it to trail off.

“You what, John?” Paul inquired, his tone, though somewhat urgent, easing gently from him.

“Nothing…” Without another word, he turned to look out the window, watching with an increasingly churning stomach, the blurred scenery as it went by at incomprehensible speeds… His eyes, in reaction to the subsequent nausea surging within him, closed after a while as though providing to him a form of defense of some sort… and eventually much-needed sleep claimed him as a result…

‘ _Nothing_ …’ McCartney echoed in his head as he continued to gaze doubtfully at Lennon’s now peaceful form. _Clearly_ , the guitarist took him for an idiot even _daring_ to feed him with his poorly constructed rubbish. Well, Paul had news for him- He didn’t believe him for a second. There was _something_ bothering the guitarist… and something he wasn’t openly revealing… His most recently acquired, poorly applied, secretive nature sealed it.

Paul chose to leave it alone for the time being, however, deciding it unethical to wake him. John was dead knackered… and his constant self-description of ‘feeling like shit’ no longer seemed intense enough to even begin to describe his well-being. It hadn’t for a long time, really… and Paul was almost certain by now that this illness— whatever the bloody hell it was, wasn’t the flu or anything remotely like the flu. The flu, as extreme as it often proved itself to be, seemed so much milder in nature when measured up to this particular illness- whatever _it_ was. Perhaps, though… _Just_ perhaps he was overanalyzing the entire thing as he often would. Regardless, it didn’t stop any increasingly bad feelings from making itself known and continuing to do so even now. He was certain of only one thing coursing through his mind. Something was off and had been off for a while now… Something inevitable seemed to be bearing down on them… _All_ of them…

“Glad Lennon’s managed to gain enough comfort to sleep,” Mal commented from his seat, glancing with some present relief at the sleeping rhythm guitarist.

Paul nodded, finding it unnecessary to even respond. Now if only their mate could wake up undeniably healthy—they’d really be on the right track at that point and this day wouldn’t possibly seem so… strangely ominous.

Placing forth a rather large yawn, he finally lifted his attention off John and shifted it in the complete opposite direction, past George out the window. They were beginning to near the airport, he could see. Not only had traffic increased tenfold, but the sky seemed to be ridiculously populated with low flying airplanes; a customarily reliable sign that they were nearing one of New York’s most cherished manmade organizations.

“Almost there, boys,” Eppy revealed unnecessarily as if managing to tap into Paul’s thoughts for that brief moment, “Soon we’ll be en route to entirely new territory.”

No one responded. Eppy in his blinded mode of excitement didn’t seem to take notice as he began to ramble on incessantly about what New Jersey would have in store for them. Something he’d revealed many times already since the dawn of the day. Paul only listened with half an ear while Ringo proceeded to humor him with cleverly placed pleased nods and grins. John slept on while George stared aimlessly out the window.

Paul frowned slightly as George manifested in his line of vision. The lead guitarist seemed oddly distant this morning… even for him. Paul found himself reaching behind Ringo and nudging him in attempt to gain his attention. “‘Ey, Geo, y’still with us?” he asked, bringing another nudge to meet his arm.

After a few beats too long, George turned to face him with tired eyes as though he might’ve been contemplating on ignoring him altogether. “Yeah… Why shouldn’t I be?” he asked.

Ringo caught between them, turned to glance at George with curiosity and then at Paul.

“You seem a bit out of it, really…” Paul explained, a twinkle of concern embedded within his large eyes, “Between you and Space Cadet Lennon, I don’t know which one’s worse… Ye’ all right?”

George blinked and scrubbed at an eye, “Yeah… Just admiring the clouds, I guess…” he responded sheepishly. He yawned, the biggest yawn Paul was sure he’d ever seen from him and coughed slightly in the aftermath. “Might’ve dropped off even…” he continued; his voice slightly hoarse. “This flu still ‘asn’t quite left me it seems.”

Paul paused to narrow his eyes on the lead guitarist, not overly convinced by such a revelation, “If that’s the case, then y’seemed a bit better yesterday…” he relayed truthfully, “Y’feel all right, Geo?”

George shrugged, his gaze falling sheepishly to the floor of the limo.

It was Ringo’s turn to dabble in concern as he came to terms right then on how peaked their younger mate seemed right then. Before anything more could be said, he launched a hand to his forehead, taking in the minor amounts of heat that seemed to radiate from it. George was running a bit of a fever… “Yer a bit warm, love,” he reluctantly revealed.

“This day just gets better and better…” Paul mumbled; ample sarcasm present in his voice.

The following sighs of frustration heaved by both Mal and Eppy summed up the general feelings of dejection within the limo cabin.

“It doesn’t mean, he’ll get what Lennon has,” Paul asserted after a while with a bit of his own optimism as limited as it was proving to be on this particular day, “We’ll send fer a doctor once we get to the hotel. Might do John some good even…”

“It’ll have to wait until after the press conference, I’m afraid,” Eppy sighed unhappily, “Our schedule’s even tighter this time around than it was even yesterday…”

“Good thing for these meds then,” Mal mumbled, “I’ll find Lennon something to eat at the airport while we await our flight, and both he and Harrison can partake in something beneficial in the meanwhile…”

Paul heaved a sigh in spite of his near desperate will to remain positive. As far as bad feelings went, life was doing too good a job at proving them valid. He didn’t like that one bit.


	21. I've Got a Feeling

“They’ll be fine, Macca…” Ringo tried to assure him as the two of them watched half their band walk off in the opposite direction at Mal’s beckoning, “… They’ll be all right once Mal takes care of business.”

Paul hadn’t even blinked to show that he’d acknowledge the drummer’s words.

So Ringo tried again. “Believe it or not, we haven’t quite struck disaster,” he followed up, trying especially hard to make the words click in the bassist’s brain and in return, instigate a response of any kind.

He regretted the sentence the instant it left his tongue; even more so when Paul still didn’t respond. Now it just seemed like he was desperately foraging for any convenient way to cover up what seemed to be looming on the horizon.Pulling an ‘Eppy’ and refusing to completely come to terms with what was unraveling right before them for the sake of the band. _Couldn’t he come up with anything less cliché and more along the lines of helpful or uplifting_? _Was that even possible?_

Ringo sighed. Such a bloody hypocrite he was for revealing forth such insincere information when he knew darn well what his own views were on the subject of the matter. It was _beyond_ obvious that John didn’t seem to be all that _fine_ as he had freely put it. Had he _been_ fine, chances were, his temperature wouldn’t be vengefully on the rise once again; solely indicating that whatever he’d been admitted with to the hospital yesterday was still attacking him. He wouldn’t be falling into sleep’s grip at every blink of an eye, becoming increasingly impossible to rouse every time. His headache would’ve subsided by now, along with all accompanying symptoms, as the hospital would’ve been able to help matters. No one had dared to address it, but they’d released him without a diagnosis. They’d released him without knowing what was wrong with him. Had he had the flu, while they wouldn’t have been able to rid him of it, they would’ve been able to confirm it and then give him the proper meds capable of taking the edge off. And as a result, he wouldn’t be so goddamned out of it today and so equally un-Lennon-like… It was maddening. All of it.

And now _George_ looked no better than Lennon had yesterday when he’d first let on that he wasn’t feeling well. It was _much_ too easy to want to jump to conclusion and assume that he was coming down with John’s volatile illness. Something was losing itself in translation… And this _something_ was riding on the back of the most ominous of feelings.

“Come ‘ead, boys!!” Eppy called to them in full out business-mode, tearing abruptly into their thoughts. Having been walking off in the opposite direction all the while, he’d come to a halt with the sudden realization that the remaining pair Mal had left behind weren’t any longer in tow. He cast a pensive glance in their direction, “We must see about our flight arrangements immediately! There’s no need to dwell on much else. The others will be _fine_.”

Paul flat-out scoffed, his eyes narrowing on the manager in the blink of an eye, “You haven’t been able to rightfully come to terms with things since yesterday, really,” he defiantly threw back, “I don’t _think_ it’s really yer place to make such assumptions.”

Ringo’s eyes widened, portraying forth his immediate surprise at the inexplicable, unanticipated sharpness of Paul’s tongue.

“What was that, _Paul_?” Eppy asked; turning to him with such a glare it made Ringo’s skin crawl.

“Nothing.” Paul muttered, his heated gaze dropping to the floor.

“That’s what I thought. Now pick up the pace, both of you.” Eppy impatiently responded through gritted teeth. He turned away and started off again.

“What _was_ that, Macca?” Ringo asked, turning to face him, eyes still wide in fresh shock.

“Sick of the rubbish…” Paul mumbled without looking at him. He suddenly looked embarrassed by his actions, “Sorry ye’ had to see that…” he added.

“Sorry fer what? Sorry yer _human_?” Ringo incredulously demanded, “Bullshit, Paul. There’s nothing to be _sorry_ about. Lennon and Harrison would be proud of ye’ fer attempting to speak yer mind and frankly, I am too. Shows yer not as perfect as y’let on.”

“I’ve been letting on to such revelations a lot lately,” Paul mumbled, “You’d think I was losing touch with me own self…”

“Well, yer stressed. We all are…” Ringo gently explained, “There’s only so much of it y’can keep to yerself.”

Paul contemplated Ringo’s words for a moment before allowing his face to break out into a smirk, “Ever think about therapy, Ritch?” he asked.

Ringo recoiled slightly unsure of whether or not he should be offended by such a question, “Y’think I need _therapy_?” he practically gasped.

Paul rolled his eyes at the drummer’s lack of understanding to what he was simply trying to say, “Don’t be daft!” he asserted, a small smile of amusement finding his face, “I meant you’d be good at it. Yer rather insightful when it counts.”

Ringo laughed, “Well, it’s a nice revelation but…I think I’d rather keep being a Beatle.”

“ _Move_ it!” Eppy irritably barked, his remaining patience continually wearing thin. At some point, their entourage had caught up with them and each member looked vaguely uncomfortable in the amount of tension that had befallen the band.

“Y’sure about that, Ritch?” Paul asked, gesturing subtly in the direction of their aggravated manager. “I’m beginning to rethink things meself…” He’d meant the latter as a joke, but Ringo didn’t quite read it that way.

“When things get tough, ye’ stick it out,” the drummer stated, allowing for another flash of wisdom to take hold. “Otherwise, what else are we good fer?”

Paul briefly smiled. “Not a hell of a lot else, I suppose…”

“Right.” Ringo grinned finally, “Well, we’d better go before Eppy decides we’re no longer good enough fer our own band,” he insisted, more than half serious, “Ye’ really might ‘ave pissed ‘im off, y’know… with that comment of yers.”

“He’ll live.” Paul simply responded.

Ringo nodded in agreement, “That ‘e will.” Paying eventual heed to Eppy’s words, he started off decisively in his direction. Taking a moment to gather his wits, Paul finally moved forward as well, nearly losing himself in their accompanying entourage…

“…Some meds and some sleep and all will be right as rain… as it should be…” Eppy was aimlessly rattling on, speaking to no one in particular… It seemed he was unsuccessfully trying to convince _himself_ more than ever, at this point. Looking at him now, seeing the undeniable anxiety in his eyes, Ringo wondered vaguely if he’d really managed to let Paul’s biting words get to him. _Perhaps_ , ignorance had been bliss for him. Perhaps, that had been his way of dealing with things. Perhaps, there _had_ beena method to his madness after all. A sanity-inducing method that kept him from spiraling out of control…

As the healthy half of the Beatles and their staff were ushered into a room of the airport intended for flight departure, Ringo somehow found himself unwittingly shuffled towards the tail end of their assemblage, his mind despite everything he’d told Paul, continuing to draw away from any mainstream sense of urgency. Despite his strong desires to remain on the upside of things, as he often preferred and tried to portray, such dark feelings were growing harder to contain as seconds evolved into minutes and so on… Commanding thoughts, they were, too. Thoughts repeatedly specifying that something was bound to go horribly wrong. While he didn’t know entirely when such irrationalities would come true or if they even would; with the progressing of every second of every minute, so increased the vague sensations taking up residence within the back of his mind like a parasite of sorts. A soul-sucking parasite that fed solely off his fears while in turn, indicating the seemingly inevitable…

Weirdly enough, he almost felt obligated to blame Paul for the pestering thoughts tearing at the inner walls of his brain. After all, it _was_ Paul who had initially let him in on dark feelings of his own just following Lennon’s admission to the hospital the night before. _Feelings_ that Ringo, himself, had known a thing or two about beforehand but had refused to see eye-to-eye with. Blaming the bassist, however, would be most unreasonable and below his nature. Not to mention, it wouldn’t solve a bloody thing. It wasn’t Paul’s fault. _None_ of this was Paul’s fault. He was as much a victim to this rubbish as Ringo was, regardless of whether or not he wanted to be…

“All right, Ringo?”

Ringo jumped from his reverie, his eyes rising several feet to meet Paul’s once more. Almost immediately, he found himself floundering to master some kind of demeanor-changing smile, “Why, I’m fine, gov’nor,” he found himself lamely quipping, “Thanks fer asking!”

Paul drew back slightly, looking momentarily lost for words and equally confused, “Just so long as yer fine, Ritch,” he responded hesitantly after a while, a small smile gradually finding his face, “But, while I’ve got yer attention,” he quickly added, his eyes taking on a humor-filled light, “if you’ll allow yerself to turn slightly to yer right, you’ll gladly take notice of the direction everyone else seems to be ‘eaded in.” Paul paused, gesturing in an entirely different direction from which the drummer was currently facing, “You’ll _then_ conclude that it’s not entirely where y’seem keen on ‘eading yerself. Follow?”

Ringo hesitated a moment out of pure confusion before it all suddenly dawned on him. He chuckled sheepishly, “Must’ve gotten a bit off track, then…” Well on his way to Mexico, it seemed… Which probably would’ve been a literal occurrence had he happened to board the wrong plane in the thick array of thoughts he’d been lost in.

Paul’s eyes narrowed in a mixture of suspicion and concern, “Y’sure yer all right?” he asked skeptically.

“Y-yeah… of course!” Ringo reassured his younger mate, an uncontrollable quaver working its way into his voice, “S’ppose I was only lost in thought.”

Paul nodded, not letting on to whether he understood or not. Ringo had the feeling that he understood just fine. “Come ‘ead, then,” the bassist gently prodded, guiding forth the oldest member of the Beatles through an entryway in pursuit of Eppy and their accompanying entourage. They’d only been in the same room as the others for a mere amount of seconds before they were abruptly introduced to Eppy’s startlingly apprehensive voice as it rose above all side conversation, reigning as a result, instant silence down on everyone.

“How can this be?!” he was saying incredulously, “We’re— the _Beatles_ are due in New Jersey in less than two hours!!”

Lovely, Ringo found himself musing to himself. What _new_ misfortunes could possibly be awaiting them, now?

Quickening his pace, Paul pushed Ringo on and on until they broke through the entourage, coming up to what appeared to be the flight information booth. Situated behind it for the sole purpose of announcing and providing information for all flights that were scheduled to depart from the portion of the airport, was a small brunette woman. Situated in front of it, was Eppy; leaning slightly forward over the desk, his palms pressed flat against its surface, supporting his entire upper body. By his stance alone, it was clear he’d been subject to news he hadn’t been in favor of hearing.

“What’s going on? What’s happened?” Paul demanded once he was in immediate auditory range.

Eppy didn’t budge as he intently took in the explanatory words provided by the lady working the booth.

“ _Well_?” Paul questioned, directing his gaze to anyone now, not supportive of being ignored.

“Some kind of a fifteen minute delay,” a member from their entourage revealed.

“Well, that’s not so bad,” Ringo started to say, “In fact--”

“Aren’t there any other options?” Eppy stated, unsuspectingly drowning out the remainder of Ringo’s words, “Can’t ye’ send fer another jet?”

The woman shook her head, “I’m afraid not, Mr. Epstein,” she revealed remorsefully, “The room _is_ , however, filled with seats that could make your wait much easier.”

“But what of fans? The crazed ones in particular!” Eppy persisted, anxiety ceasing to abandon him, “I’m right certain my boys aren’t up to any hounding or anything of the like!” He turned to glance at Paul right then who shook his head, confirming his beliefs.

“I can assure you all that this particular portion of the airport has been secured and sectioned off in anticipation of your arrival. Traffic will continue to be diverted until your flight departure.”

“Well, how can you be sure?”

“She’s _sure_ , Eppy,” Paul sighed, beginning to get annoyed with the continuous exchange of futile words, “It’s her _job_ to be sure.”

Eppy sighed in reluctance, relenting finally and unwillingly, “Right… I suppose everyone should just go ‘ave a seat then and begin the wait… We can’t very well leave without the others, at any rate…”

The band’s staff dispersed first and eventually the two Beatles followed suit, walking without purpose towards the two seats that weren’t occupied by people or equipment vital to the band.

“Bloody ‘ell… what a day this is turning out to be…” Paul sighed wearily as he eased himself into one of the seats, Ringo doing the same beside him, “I hope John and George are doing all right.”

“They’re with Mal. I don’t think they _have_ a choice _but_ to be all right,” Ringo found the energy to quip, “He most certainly won’t want to deal with any bullshit courtesy of Lennon especially!”

Paul chuckled halfheartedly and neither spoke for a while, both proceeding to get lost in their own ominous thoughts.

Thinking of John, Ringo found himself falling subject to yesterday’s sequence of events as it had panned out… From their departure from Ohio, to their initial arrival in the great state of New York, to their arrival at the hotel they’d stayed at. How quickly things had gone downhill from then.

“Are you sure you feel all right?” he vividly remembered Paul asking of John, following to an extent a small amount of much-needed relaxation that had taken place once they’d settled in somewhat into the comfort of their suite. Ringo had watched with unexplained tension as the bassist had settled his hand against John’s forehead for what seemed like seconds before he was hastily pushed away.

“Leave me alone, I’m fine…” John had irritably grumbled, glaring up at him with those increasing tired eyes of his.

“He got a fever?” Ringo solely remember asking from his perch against the counter of the kitchen area, “Should I get Eppy to send fer a doctor?”

“I don’t have a bloody fever, y’git!” John had turned to growl at him, a fiery glare claiming him. He had turned said glare on Paul to further instill those stubborn words of his, “I _don’t_ have a fever!”

How quickly the tables had turned… and how Ringo _loathed_ what had immediately seemed to follow suit from then on.

“103.9…” the doctor had apathetically revealed, lifting the thermometer into the light.

“Bloody ‘ell…” Ringo vividly remembered exclaiming in utmost fear, “Shouldn’t he be in a hospital?!”

“Not a cold…” the doctor had blatantly ignored him. Ringo remembered fuming as he watched the pompous arse reach into that bag of his for some kind of syringe. And with no bedside manners whatsoever, not that John would’ve been aware enough to acknowledge them, proceeded to inject… more like stab him with it.

“What’s that?” Mal had demanded, his peaked concern as plain as day.

“Let him sleep a few hours and he should regain coherence as his fever drops,” the doctor had coldly responded rather than answer him as he should have.

“What?” both George and Paul had simultaneously questioned.

Ringo had reached the end of his rope by that point. “No…” he remembered stubbornly proclaiming, “I’ve spent enough time in a hospital as a child to know that John needs to be in one!!”

The doctor had scoffed at him. Blatantly turned to him with those icy eyes of his and scoffed, “Have you now, _Mr. Starr_ …is it? And I’m sure there are thousands out there like you who have done exactly the same. Grown up in hospitals, so to speak. Doesn’t make them all doctors now, however, does it?”

Again, had it been in his nature, Ringo would’ve tackled and beat the bloody quack to a pulp. Curse his polite nature sometimes. Too many times it served to be a hindrance in the way of well-deserved justice. As far as he could see, the doctor held some responsibility for what was currently on with John and no one could tell him otherwise. Had he _had_ the necessary set of skills to begin with, chances were, the Beatles would’ve been spared every traumatic event that had since followed. And now George… He…

The sound of unanticipated footsteps manifested suddenly in front of them and both Beatles looked up in surprise, staring into the faces of both their rhythm and lead guitarist. Their presences were so sudden and unexpected neither the bassist nor the drummer could conceal their resulting gasps.

“Johnny!! Geo!!” Ringo exclaimed, his voice nearly escalating with surprise to the point of no return, “Yer back!!”

George tiredly smirked, the display on his face appearing halfhearted at best, an undeniable contrast to Ringo’s current animated mode of being, “Ye’ act like ye’ ‘aven’t seen us in years, Rings!”

“It sure _feels_ that way!” Ringo responded, wiping away mock-tears from both his cheeks. He glanced briefly at his watch, “…Twenty minutes is a _long_ time, y’know!”

“‘S’that how long it’s been since they first took off with Mal?” Paul asked in full-out shock, glancing at his watch for verification.

“Time flies when yer… when yer…” Ringo faltered, his gaze shifting towards Paul, “ _Blimey_!! What were we _doing_ all that time?” _Surely_ , they _hadn’t_ been lost in thought for so impossibly long…

Paul frowned, displaying his own bemusement on the subject. “M’not rightly certain… Must’ve been time-consuming enough whatever it was…” Dismissing the matter altogether in exchange for a more important one, he turned back to his mates, “How’re ye’ feeling?” he asked.

George managed a small smile, regarding him with sleepy eyes. “A bit knackered, really…” he sluggishly revealed, his demeanor emphasizing his words to the fullest, “Me ‘ead hurts a bit but I’ve felt worse… Really, I’m not too bad off.”

Paul’s gaze remained skeptical but he said nothing to give off the effect that he wasn’t overly happy with the revelation as nonthreatening as it seemed. “That’s great, Geo… Maybe a small kip on the plane will take care of the rest.”

He _hoped_ so, anyway. George really looked a lot like John had yesterday early on before his illness had decided to take on that wild and frightening spin that had eventually led to hospitalization. It was a bit uncanny. _Of course_ , as he much too often did, he was probably jumping to conclusions. Most illnesses started off the same way before they developed characteristics that would sooner or later gain them identities of their own. He’d best find a way to keep up his positive image if even only on the outside… He could collapse into a distressed heap all he wanted on the inside, just so long as he remained intact to the naked eye. It was never this hard, separating his inner feeling from his outer. He’d always had the gift of keeping the negative out of reach and away from troubling his face and mannerisms. Why was it _so_ hard now?? ‘ _Because_ _everything’s so wrong_ …’ his mind asserted. He wasn’t sure why but it was _all_ wrong… He shook the thought away and brought his eyes back to his mates.

George was looking at him hard, “All right, Paul?” he demanded in some kind of unexplained surprise. Even in his slightly ailing state, perception didn’t cease to escape him.

Paul pasted on a smile, “Yeah, Geo. I’m fine,” he rose from his seat and pointed to it, “Why don’t ye’ sit before ye’ drop off standing up?”

George looked grateful as he practically leaped at the opportunity, “Ta, Paulie!”

Paul allowed his smile to taper off as he turned to face his other mate, left still standing and unaccounted for. Johnny. He’d been so quiet; he’d nearly forgotten he’d returned. Standing directly in front of him now, Paul was able to see just how terribly unwell and all-out pale and washed out he appeared. He hadn’t even been so pale when he’d first set eyes on him. Paul felt a resulting twinge of apprehension in his gut as he made a move to address him. “Are ye’ all right, Johnny?” he worriedly asked, “Y’look terrible!”

“Hm?” John turned to him with such surprise; Paul had to wonder what had been plaguing his thoughts all throughout his time of unnerving silence. The rhythm guitarist hadn’t uttered even one word since his and George’s arrival and the bassist couldn’t help dwelling on how much that bothered him.

“Blimey!” Ringo proclaimed, turning immediately to take in Paul’s concerns, “What’s the matter with Johnny?”

John blinked, blatantly trying to make sense of all of this. “Whadaye’ mean?” he feebly croaked, allowing his voice to be heard for the first time.

The weakness in his voice didn’t do the situation justice. “ _Are_ ye’ all right, Johnny?” Ringo asked, beginning to rise from his seat, “Do y’need to sit?” He gestured frantically to his seat, “Please sit, love… Paul’s right… y’do look awful…”

John blinked a few times and shook his head slightly in a manner that proved dismissive. “I… I don’t know what yer on about…” he murmured shakily, “I’m fine…”

Paul frowned, his eyes holding steady on Lennon’s face which seemed to be paling considerably all the time. “ _Really_ , I think ye’ should sit,” he urged anxiously as though his life would depend on such actions. Looking at Lennon, it would seem that it did.

John grimaced backing away slightly. They were so loud. Everything was so loud… His mates… Their voices echoed terribly as they resounded off his eardrums and wrapped themselves around his suffocating brain. John paled even more at the assertion of the additional noise as it met up continuously with his excruciatingly throbbing skull, “Too loud…” he found himself grumbling. He could hardly hear himself though. Had he even spoken? He felt like he was in a cave… A dark… dark… empty but oddly crowded cave… He couldn’t… he couldn’t… Had he gone numb? Was he shaking? Why on earth would he do such a thing?

“John!!” Paul suddenly barked, his voice sounding way too overly panicked.

It was so like him to overreact. Way too over-panicky, that one… You’d think the end of the world was approaching with the way he was carrying on. Perhaps it was though. It would explain the shaking of the earth below him. Or was that him shaking himself…? He tried to relay forth a question of supportable nature but was disappointed with the outcome as something unrelated and pathetic tumbled out… “…Feelsrraaange…” he murmured, his words sounding terribly slurred and distorted in his head. And it hadn’t even come out right… _Srange_? Hadn’t he meant strange? He tried to elaborate but something was going horribly wrong with his tongue… not to mention his vision…

He blinked blearily into the newly darkening world as everything about him began to take on an odd tilt. Had he not been about to fall over, he might’ve laughed. Particularly at how silly everything looked from such an angle…

Paul’s eyes were wide with impossible concern as he rushed towards him, “Fer chrissakes, someone get Mal!!” he ordered.

 _Mal_? _Why_? John didn’t get to hear such explanatory reasoning. Darkness settled in much too suddenly and all was lost.

 

* * *

 

The first thing, John realized when he awoke was how overly bright everything was. The second thing was how much every muscle…every joint… every bone resolutely ached and throbbed as though he’d been severely beaten… or thrown from a cliff… Maybe he’d been hit by a bloody bus… or train… or plane…

“He’s awake!!” someone breathed. “ _Finally_!” Was that George?

“You’ve got to stop doing this, Johnny!!”

Hazily, John turned his aching head towards the voice’s source, wincing at the severe amount of pain in his neck, “Doing what?” he murmured, realizing it was Mal who had spoken.

“Scaring us to death!” Ringo shakily inserted, jumping into his line of vision, “Cor blimey!!”

John struggled to sit up, “Y’look like you’ve wet yerself, Rings…” he commented, taking in the paleness that currently held the drummer’s face captive. He tried to grin mockingly but for the life of him, couldn’t get his face to comply.

“Wouldn’t surprise me if I did!” Ringo responded softly, purposely looking past his joke.

“They have uh…” John frowned, finding that certain words weren’t coming to him with the grace he was used to, “They ‘ave… diapers fer that, y’know.”

Ringo broke out into a small grin right then, “They sure do, Johnny… They sure do!”

John blinked in confusion. Ringo’s reaction hadn’t been anywhere near the reaction he’d been hoping for… What was going on?

Brian came up behind Ringo, his mannerisms as he did so emanating pure apprehension. “Are you _all right_?” he asked, those eyes of his frantically looking him over. His face was frighteningly pale as though he’d just been through something impossibly traumatizing. “Jesus Christ, Lennon!”

John found himself smirking in spite of the unnerving graveness of the current situation beginning to manifest before his very eyes. Unable to fully process what was happening and unsure of what else to do with the unspecified circumstances, his gaze locked on Eppy with this smirk, almost unnaturally derisive in nature. “What’s the matter?” he asked, his words taking on a condescending spin that somehow seemed impossible to conceal, “Yer… yer…” His brain didn’t seem to be working all that well… “Yer… lover call it quits?” he scoffed, a smug grin finding his face.

“Well, he’s cracking jokes, he can’t be all that bad,” Eppy muttered, turning to face Mal. He looked oddly relieved by this, despite the blatant unnatural twist to Lennon’s standard antics.

Mal remained unconvinced for all the right reasons, “That may be the case, Brian, but… I don’t feel taking chances would be the wise thing to do! Look at what’s just happened!”

“What?” John’s grin faded, “What’s ‘appened?”

“John, y’fell…” George affirmed, fretfully crossing in front of him, “Y’fell and ye’ began to shake… like mad…and…” He choked on the remainder of his unformed words and began to cough.

“Easy, Geo,” Ringo cajoled, glancing to him with a bit of concern as his minor fit came to an end.

“ _What_?” John croaked, his voice proving just as hoarse as George’s coughing, “I was _shaking_? _Why_?”

“Mal thinks ye’ ‘ad a seizure…” Paul stepped in to elaborate, taking in a deep, somewhat calming breath beforehand.

“But--” John found there was no amount of sharp-witted words that could take the edge from such a sobering revelation. “Well… I’m fine now, aren’t I?” he asked hesitantly.

“Do ye’ _feel_ fine?” Mal demanded, his face stoic with solemnity as he peered into Lennon’s eyes, “Please be honest with me. I could ‘ave the paramedics here in a flash. Would’ve been here already, had you not decided to come to.”

“ _Paramedics_?” John echoed; chills that could be attributed to both the use of the word and illness, dancing down his spine, “But that would mean…”

Mal nodded sympathetically. “You’d most likely end up back under observation…”

“And New Jersey?”

“Would be postponed.” Mal concluded.

Eppy was practically vibrating with anxiety as he turned to look at him, “What’s it going to be, Johnny?” he asked.

John’s face fell. Choices… He was never good at these. Why did it always come down to decisions? Why, when presented with two things, couldn’t it always be both? _Just do it, Johnny_ … _There’s no wrong choice here_ … _is there_? _Of course_ there was… There was always a wrong choice… Always one wrong choice that would send someone away unhappy… That someone disappearing _forever_ … John frowned. Who would that someone be in this particular scenario? Eppy or… Wait… what was he deciding again? He looked up in confusion.

Mal shook his head, “He doesn’t seem very lucid… I’m calling the—”

“Let him decide, Mal, before we call in the bloody reserves!” Eppy interrupted.

Decide… right… Decide _what_? _Paramedics_ … _Hospital_ … of course. Did he need a hospital? No that was utter overkill… Sure he didn’t feel great but… he’d thrive wouldn’t he? If he could get through yesterday, he could get through today… couldn’t he? He’d been through so much unnecessary crap already… There was no way he could throw a hospital back into the mix. What good would it do? They’d only look at him and come to the useless conclusion that something was wrong but they didn’t have a bloody clue what it was. All they would know was that this _something_ could potentially be life-threatening. And he’d be left subject to his own destructive fears. He couldn’t go through that again… He just _couldn’t_ … Hospitals were so grim and filled with death… He needed an environment like that like he needed a bloody hole in the head… And Eppy… Letting him down would be a right mad stunt to pull. It would ruin everything and possibly cause his manager to be the one to walk out on him never to be seen again. And then everyone else would eventually follow and he’d… He’d be all alone like he’d been last night… in that hospital from hell. There. That settled it. “I… I’m all right…” he murmured, raising his eyes to meet Mal’s. “I’ll be all right…”

Eppy looked relieved…

“Are y’sure?” Paul worriedly stepped in, “Y’ _just_ … I don’t like what I saw out of ye’ just now.”

John swallowed hard, “…I’m John Lennon, aren’t I? I’m a tough breed if ye’ didn’t already know.”

“Well, tough or not, you’ll most definitely be meeting with a doctor after the conference if I can help it,” Mal sternly inserted, “Both you and Geo… And I’m not doing a thing to keep this most recent of yer proceedings under cloak-and-dagger just so ye’ know.”

John nodded, failing to take in the road manager’s words entirely. Somehow, he felt overly satisfied with his choice. He hadn’t destroyed someone’s life with his terrible decision-making skills after all…

 


	22. I'll Cry Instead

“Another twenty minutes?” Eppy had walked off huffing, “It’s like we’re not supposed to leave this bloody airport!”

“He’s right. I’m getting sick of this place.” Paul muttered, looking for a moment like he was on the verge of going stir-crazy. Sometimes being in one place for too long buggered the living daylights out of him.

“At least Georgie’s gaining some good from it,” Ringo responded, gesturing towards the row of seats he and Paul had earlier given up at the beginning sign of John’s most recent episode. Exhausted from the ordeal courtesy of Lennon, their lead guitarist had claimed the area for sleep. “Looks angelic, doesn’t ‘e?” Ringo commented sweetly, “All flushed and innocent-like…”

Paul nodded, a warm smile finding his face at the presenting spectacle. “I hope he’ll be all right,” he murmured unable to keep the worry from filtering into his voice, “If he were to rapidly decline like Lennon did yesterday, I…” he allowed his voice to trail off, the rest of his words needless to speak.

“We can only hope that he won’t…” Ringo softly replied, “All we can do really is keep an eye on ‘im until Mal arranges fer this doctor to come ‘ave a look-see… Same for John.” He shuddered as the most recent episode replayed itself in his mind. How frighteningly out of it, John had seemed beforehand. How unseeing his eyes had been before he’d abruptly dropped to the floor in a heap and began jolting around like the earth at the mercy of a particularly violent quake. The lady behind her booth had come running, shouting incoherently about an ambulance. Mal had sternly advised her not to intervene and she had reluctantly slowed her step just outside the circle the band had tightly formed about John. She’d continued to look on in worry at a safe distance while Mal went to work at comforting their seizing band mate. Minutes seemed to evolve into hours but it was only mere seconds before John had come to. Mere seconds. Ringo specifically remembered dwelling on the revelation in shock. It had only been several seconds, a minute at the most since he’d initially watched his mate drop to the floor, seize, and come to. It was amazing how certain crises had the ability to give the impression of time slowing to a near standstill. It was amazing to the point that it was most unreal… Unreal, like the seizure had been. Things seemed beyond serious now. Seizures didn’t often come on without reason in patients who were without a history, did they? Though Ringo was the furthest thing from a doctor, he was certain he was on the right track with his thoughts. Something _had_ to be wrong with their rhythm guitarist. _Something_ more extreme than any flu could yield…

Though fingers had been pointing in the direction for a long time now, they were all _certain_ by now that Lennon didn’t have the flu. All symptoms ranging from the unpredictable, fluctuating changes in mood, personality, and overall mentality, to the constant and unbearable headaches, to the erratic fevers, to the reoccurring nausea, even now to the seizures, simply didn’t scream ‘flu’. They didn’t seem to amount to anything remotely sense-worthy, really. All that the Beatles knew for sure was that for some unknown and frightening reason; their mate, their leader, their brother, was deteriorating rapidly before their very eyes. Somehow, becoming undone… and worsening all the time. His mind _purely_ didn’t seem to want to function on a normal level, anymore.

 _Still_ , they were willing to give this illness the benefit of the doubt. If they continued to keep the ‘flu’ listed among numerous endless possibilities then it wouldn’t seem so bad. It would never seem as bad because the flu would eventually take care of itself without long-term damaging effects… usually. But if they allowed the possibility that he had anything else to rule their minds, things would only fall out of kilter, even more so than they already were. But what difference did that make? Things were _already_ _well_ out of kilter… So off kilter, Ringo felt the entire universe was at a tilt. They’d just sat there and watched John have a seizure for chrissakes!! Flu or not… John was… John was potentially very sick… If John didn’t begin to improve, John might need to end up back in a hospital for his own good. The same even went for George. Knackered, feverish George who was starting to display a lot of the early symptoms that had been plaguing John all of yesterday. George, who they hoped was only possibly coming down with a minor cold or anything additionally mild…

It was a dangerous game they were playing it seemed; making _work_ their top priority in the face of such a vague and possibly critical situation. But, Eppy… there was no telling Eppy what to do… _especially_ when things were practically set in stone as they were.

Ringo frowned as he landed his gaze on John who hadn’t risen from the floor since the unexpected scare he’d inadvertently dished out. He sat, in exactly the same spot he’d fallen, his eyes working overtime at avoiding the gazes of others. Aside from the obvious pallor that still gripped him beneath the feverish flush of his cheeks, he looked dreadfully exhausted. Sickly… “Ye’ sure yer all right, Johnny?” the drummer worriedly inquired.

John nodded, though the action lacked the confident conviction it needed.

“Yer being ‘onest?”

John nodded again this time with even less purpose placed into the affirmative gesture.

Frowning all the more, Ringo shifted his glance to Paul to gain his perception on the subject matter. The bassist hastily returned it with surefire skepticism. “Me arse he’s being honest,” he muttered knowingly, “But ‘ey. No need fer unnecessary _concern_ ‘ere, apparently _dishonesty_ is Lennon’s most recently adopted trait!”

John wasn’t blind to this exchange nor was he blind to the growing hostility embedded within the sarcasm of Paul’s voice. The bassist was possibly upset with him _again_. John could _always_ tell when Paul was upset. Why? It was one of those strange connections they had. One of those things that would often leave Eppy, Mal, and occasionally even Ringo and George baffled. They just seemed to know things when looking at each other. John could take one look at Paul on any given day and easily conclude in the blink of an eye that something was bothering him. It didn’t have to be visible because in the public eye it hardly was. He was smiles all the time in the face of the fans. Constantly grinning and joking when the press was in the vicinity so as not to give off any wrong impressions… But John, he could always read between the lines as the bassist could with him. They just knew things about each other. It was like receiving a telegram through a brainwave with their eyes masquerading as the postman.

But what had Paul up in arms now? Was it something he’d said? John wasn’t entirely sure. What _had_ he said? John frowned, finding he couldn’t even remember the extent of the most recent conversation he’d had. Most likely, it had something to do with his downward spiraling health. Something he’d probably said or done in relation to that. Either way, he somehow had the feeling all conversation in regards to him was far from over. Paul most likely had more to say on the subject. More questions. There were _always_ questions. Whatever happened to good ‘ol fashioned silence? Couldn’t they tell he didn’t feel like talking? Couldn’t they tell he wasn’t feeling, in the least bit, well?

At the growing threat of being additionally cross-examined, he rose unsteadily to his feet, struggling against the accompanying uninvited dizziness swirling about his head and made his way towards a conveniently placed remote corner. Paying no heed to the reactions of his band mates or rather not caring what they thought, he roughly dropped himself to the floor at its base and in no time, had his aching head leaned back against one of the supporting walls and his incessantly burning eyes blissfully closed against the extreme irritating bright vigor of a world he suddenly wasn’t too keen on facing. He wasn’t sure when entirely such a transition had taken place but everything was much too bright and boisterous all of a sudden, almost as though all his senses had been turned up to its full capacity. It was making him feel a bit strange… dizzy… agitated… Maybe it was all in his head… like everything else seemed to be… Confined in isolation to that stupid malfunctioning body part he called his head. Isolation… Maybe he belonged in isolation. Some kind of facility for the mad and barmy. He’d often thought himself to be a mad genius but… the genius aspect hardly seemed to exist anymore. What was happening to him? He could hardly tell reality from unreality anymore. …And now he was going about having seizures? The seizure at this point even felt like a far-away dream… Life _itself_ , felt like a dream… More like a nightmare, really. If it truly was, he’d give anything to wake up from it… Anything at all… Never had he felt so lonely in his endeavors… _Never_ had he felt so removed from life itself.

Within a matter of some unknown extent of time, John felt the sudden presence of additional bodies to either side of him and cracked an eye open just as Ringo and Paul sank to the ground beside him, populating his entitled corner with a strange but much needed warmth of sorts. Though he’d initially chosen the corner to get away from them and their repeated gazes of maddening concern, it was as though they’d sensed his lonesomeness and saw it as grounds enough to defy his wishes. It was a daring action on their behalves that would normally provoke his temper…But strangely enough, this seemed to be what he currently needed. He needed… to forget his fears. He needed not to be alone… He needed to feel better… if any of that made sense… And his mates, they knew… They _always_ knew… Such queers they were, but he loved them just the same… Slightly comforted, John allowed for his weighted eyelids to drop once again, permanently across his burning eyes. Much sought out darkness blanketed his brain.

‘ _You’re going to need quite a bit of extra vigor for the long battle ahead_ …’

John jolted to life and glanced about him as though someone was out to get him, “Did someone say something?” he asked, eyes wide and inexplicably panicked as he turned to face first Paul and then Ringo.

“What? _Who_?” Paul stuttered out in confusion.

“ _Anyone_!” John quavered, now glancing about the whole vicinity of the room looking feverishly for traces of this unspoken voice, “I heard someone speak as plain as day right in me ear it seemed like!!

“Are you all right, love?” Ringo asked, concern sinking in once again. “Perhaps ye’ dreamt it. Y’ _were_ starting t’fall asleep, y’know…”

John looked unconvinced but relaxed somewhat despite his body’s will and procession to take on a slightly unnerving tremble. Emitting a quiet groan, he shifted uncomfortably, leaned his head back once again and closed his eyes as though he hadn’t just been on the edge of falling subject to a panic-attack…

“John?” Ringo called.

No answer.

“Bloody ‘ell, is he sleeping already?” Paul commented; eyes wide as he turned to glance at Ringo. He frowned in a mix of fear and confusion. His best mate really wasn’t acting right. Not that he’d been as of late.

“This is strange, wake ‘im up!” Ringo prodded suddenly.

Paul blinked in additional confusion. “What? Why?”

“I don’t know… Something doesn’t feel right…”

After looking at Ringo with knitted eyebrows; Paul moved finally to obey his wishes. A single shake of the arm was normally all it would take to rouse the naturally light sleeper that was their mate. Lately, it had been taking more and more effort, progressing at times to the point that the Beatles would sometimes feel obligated to dump a bucket of water on his head just to accomplish the task. Waking him on the limo ride over had been the perfect example of that.

“Blimey, he won’t fucking budge…” Paul mumbled, shaking him even harder now, “He _just_ fell asleep fer chrissakes!! He shouldn’t be that deep in already!!”

“Easy!!” Ringo quickly intervened, “Yer gon’ give ‘im whiplash!!”

“Then _you_ wake ‘im!!”

Ringo nodded and took the difficult task within his own hands. “Wake up, love-dove!!” he loudly called, tapping his face with just enough present force that he’d feel it but not too much force that it would hurt him. Scant attention was paid to neither the escalation of his voice nor to the amount of surveyors beginning to turn in their direction with pronounced wonder.

“Fer chrissakes, we want to wake him, not damage his ‘earing!” Paul snapped, sticking a finger in his own throbbing eardrum.

Ringo sat back with a contemplative frown, “I don’t understand!! That usually works!!”

“Move over,” Paul ordered, gently pushing the drummer out of the way. He straddled John’s legs in a way that if not for the current circumstances would’ve been deemed inappropriate and proceeded to grip both his shoulders, “Wake up, John!!” he strongly coaxed, “Y’need to _wake_ _up_ _now_!!”

John’s eyelids sluggishly peeled apart and with great effort, he took in with already present confusion, Paul’s positioning on top of him. For a moment it seemed he didn’t recognize him and then it all rushed back in a fit of fleeting anger. “What are ye-- Get _off_ me, y’bloody queer!!” he snapped, shoving at him with arms that seemed incapable of holding true to the strength they would otherwise readily portray.

Paul quickly scrambled off of him, “When did you get to be such a sound sleeper?” he demanded worriedly.

John shivered inadvertently. “Wha… What’re ye’ on about? I wasn’t sleeping!”

“But y’were!” Ringo emphasized, “You were dead asleep, John!”

John shook his head, “No… I…” he blinked blearily, his words trailing off all at once… He shivered again involuntarily. “…‘m’rather lightheaded, really…” he admitted faintly, his self-observation proving completely irrelevant to what he’d originally been about to say, “Is that strange…?”

“It would most certainly explain why yer still so bleedin’ pale,” Ringo frowned, turning to gain a peak at his face. He suddenly looked increasingly worried, his eyes filling with fear. “Yer not going to… y’know…again?” he asked disjointedly.

“What?” John turned woozily to face him with eyes that didn’t quite seem all that focused to begin with.

“ _Y’know_ …” Ringo persisted tentatively.

“No, I _don’t_ know, Macca…” John snapped, his anger surging once again, “Enlighten me fer chrissakes…”

“I’m _not_ Macca!” Ringo quickly asserted.

John grunted in his direction. “Well, what the ‘ell yer jumping down me throat for? I _know_ yer not Macca, y’git…”

“Y’ just called him… Macca, John…” Paul clarified, his face portraying his own ample confusion and concerns as he came to Ringo’s defense.

John froze, momentarily taking in the excess worry in the bassist’s eyes before shrugging indifferently and looking away. He fell suddenly silent.

“You… all right?” Paul frowned hesitantly.

John blinked again blearily. “So fucking what, _McCartney_ …” he barked suddenly without turning to look at him, “I’m human, aren’t I? Last I checked I’m entitled to minor mistakes…”

Paul’s ongoing concern fell into momentary submission as a brand new array of emotions surfaced within him. “Take it easy, would ye?” he muttered, somewhat offended by Lennon’s misplaced anger, “I was only telling ye’ what happened. ‘S’not that big a deal, really!”

“Wouldn’t know it by the way yer carrying on. Back off then!”

“John…” Ringo stepped in this time, his voice suddenly rigid with more concern of his own.

“Everyone thinks I’m bloody broken or about to break… I’m not about to ‘ave meself a bloody seizure again, y’know… I’m _not_ about to die!!”

“Did we say ye’ were?” Ringo’s asked, turning to face Paul in an act of bemusement.

“I might be a fucking muddled mess but I can still read between the lines,” John grumbled, “Y’think I don’t know what all ye’ sods are saying about me? Y’think I can’t tell what yer thinking? I was in a hospital, all right? I heard everything… I heard how… how they don’t ‘ave a fucking clue what to do about me… Jus’ like everyone else… and these are fucking doctors… _Doctors_ …”

The two on-looking Beatle’s faces fell at the onslaught of John’s outburst. Even various members of the entourage looked equally flabbergasted their ears not failing to pick up on the frustration-driven proclamation courtesy of their very own John Lennon.

“Well, did they tell y’that up front?” Paul asked, daring to venture even further into the void that has Lennon’s mind.

“No, I _read_ into each their individual thoughts,” John muttered dryly, “I can do that, y’know.” He grinned sardonically at the portrayal of his words, but the action was empty. Lacking feeling.

“Well… what did these doctors say exactly?” Ringo asked.

“Not a damn thing, really…” John muttered distantly, turning his attention again to a wall opposite him.

“John…” Paul sternly prodded.

“That’s me name, Macca,” John quipped, poorly attempting to change his demeanor altogether as he turned to face him with a blatantly artificial and still lacking grin, “Glad you’ve taken the time to avoid screwing it up! Do ye’ or don’t y’feel a better sense of accomplishment now?”

“Don’t do that… that _thing_ ye’ always do, okay?” Paul hastily barked, causing some of their companions to jump in surprise.

“What thing?” John responded, managing to remain unfazed as he turned to him now with casual innocence, “As usual, I ‘ave no idea what it is yer on about!”

“ _Don’t_ try to cover up yer emotions with humor, Lennon!” Ringo sharply emphasized, his blue eyes appearing almost grey as he narrowed them indignantly at his best mate, “We know ye’ to the point that it never works! … _And_ _never_ will…” He crossed his arms over his chest for dramatic effect and proceeded to glare at him.

John’s depleted eyes fell glumly to his lap.

“Let’s ‘ear it then, Johnny,” Ringo coaxed, his tone softening now to a milder level more characteristic of him, “We won’t leave ye’ alone… until--”

“You’d be better off,” John stated indifferently, his transient gaze reverting back to the blank wall in his line of vision.

“Do ye’ really believe that?” Paul hissed, daring to move closer towards the guitarist so that his face was mere inches from his, “Christ, ye’ always do this!! Y’can’t keep pushing me— us away, y’know! It’s unhealthy!!”

John cocked an eyebrow in his direction in a manner of challenge, “Watch me!” he hastily sneered. He reached out without much conscious thought and without warning shoved the bassist back with such force; he was taken aback by his own actions.

Paul too, couldn’t mask his initial surprise. He flopped back against the wall, nonetheless, and proceeded to avoid his gaze. “Yer not yerself, Lennon…” he muttered, his words barely audible.

“I am _too_ , meself…” John argued, taking a moment to gaze at his offending hands.

Flinching heavily at the continuous escalation of noise, George found he was beginning to struggle with the bit of a kip he was trying to catch, “Would ye’ guys--” he pleadingly tried to interject.

“Shhh…” Ringo gently shushed him, not wanting the unsuspecting young lead guitarist to become the target of any misdirected anger.

“But…” George whined.

“‘S’okay, love…” Ringo cajoled him, rising from his seat to go sit with him.

“Then why won’t ye’ talk to me?” Paul presently threw back in John’s face.

“What do y’ _want_ me to say? We’ve been over this, Paul. I’m fucking sick… What _more_ is there to say??!”

“You can talk about what’s been additionally bothering ye’ all day, rather than continue to hide it like the stubborn git ye’ are!!”

“I can _do_ whatever the bloody ‘ell I want, McCartney!” John growled back, paling dramatically from the force of his own words, “Stop acting…” he paused momentarily, looking suddenly winded by his emotions, “Stop acting like ye’ know what’s best fer me… I’m twenty-fucking-four years old. Been me own caretaker fer longer than I care to remember…”

“Easy, John,” Ringo put in, perceptively catching the growing pallor in his face.

‘Yer not twenty-four, yet,” Paul coldly responded. He stopped right then, desperate to get a firm handle on his rapidly escalating emotions. As maddening as Lennon’s behavior was and often always was, it would be completely heartless and inconsiderate of him not to put his feelings into consideration. In as many years as he’d known him, Lennon, for the most part, only clammed up when something had managed to get through that seemingly thickly sound skin of his to his vulnerable and unstable center. That something, in turn, would have to be something he’d readily perceive as traumatic… Earth-shattering. He’d have thought that perhaps it was a form of unrealized fear in reaction to his sudden and anticipated seizure but this unusual behavior had been going on long before its occurrence. Since he’d arrived from the hospital, really…

“ _Congratulations_ on yer newfound math skills. Are we done ‘ere?” John muttered apathetically.

“No, John… we’re _not_ done! In fact--”

“We’re _done_!!” John forcefully interjected, lifting his gaze to fix him with what he hoped to be a threatening glare. As they often did of late, his eyes proved betraying as un-fallen tears were suddenly present within them. Rather than wipe at them, he collapsed into a contrasting bitter laugh. The laugh seeming to take on a life of its own, he laughed and laughed and laughed… only stopping as a hoarse cough tore into his chest… Then he started to cry… right there in the open… tears, repeatedly streaming down his flushed cheeks.

Eyes widened in mere shock. No one knew what to say…

Paul managed to find his tongue, finally, “What is going on with you, John?” he whispered after a while, hoping that this wasn’t the beginning of some form of delirium. This whole display seemed oddly reminiscent to the day before.

“Don’t know what’s on with me, ‘ey, Paulie?” John hoarsely questioned through a mess of throat-clogging tears. He swallowed back a growing lump in his throat, wiped at his eyes, and laughed again; a bitter nervous laugh, “Well, get in line. Spent _all_ bloody night in a bloody, immaculate hospital and they _don’t_ have a bloody clue what’s wrong with me!!” he emphasized with much more force. He laughed shortly again. “‘S’fucking mad, isn’t it?”

“John--” Ringo started.

“I’ve gone and caught meself the bloody plague… it seems. I’ve caught bloody death’s grip, really… Well, _not_ really, but ye’ wouldn’t know a thing judging by the way everyone’s got their knickers twisted up their arses. The way they all look at me…”

“ _John_!!” Mal hissed, appearing suddenly at their sides after coming to terms with the fact that things were quickly getting out of hand.

“Tell me _I’m_ the one overreacting,” John continued, his demeanor unnervingly calmer than it should’ve been with such wording, “‘S’that what you’d rather want… er think, Eppy--” He blinked in a fit of dizziness and confusion, “… Mimi… _Mal_?”

“John, take it easy, would ye’?” Paul tried to interject, his eyes dark with heavy concern.

“‘S’fucking mad… I’m fucking mad… Perhaps, I’ve lost me ‘ead…” the rhythm guitarist went on, looking all the more distraught.

Faces whitened all around him. Even Ringo looked sorry he had provoked such an explosion. “John,” he shakily began, “that’s--”

“Shurrup!!” John murmured, his head pounding piercingly in the aftermath of all the words he’d just spilled forth. He brought his hands to his temples and gripped, willing the pain to just quit… “Just _shurrup_ …”

“No one said any such thing,” Mal finally cut in, eager to save what was left of the unraveling situation, “Fer _chrissakes_ , Lennon! I wish you wouldn’t drag everyone into that pessimistic mindset of yers!!”

“Pessimistic or realistic?” John darkly challenged, turning to face him, eyes wild and unfocused, “Were _you_ there in the hospital in the midst of me endless _nightmares_? I saw me uncle… I might’ve even seen me dad… I don’t bloody remember… Probably would’ve blocked it out even if I did… But I….” He blinked, his train of thoughts suddenly expelled from his mind, “I… you weren’t there!” he finished lamely, “No one was…”

“I… I _was_ there…” Mal lied, trying to keep a waiting quaver from entering his voice, “J-John-- don’t think like that okay? You’ll be all right! Right as rain in no time!!”

“Ye’ weren’t there!” John accused, eyes narrowing on him in a fiery glare, “I watched ye’ leave me… jus’ like they all do…”

Mal opened his mouth to respond, but quickly shut it, realizing that there was nothing he could say that would successfully enable him to backtrack on the lie he had wastefully created.

“Really, John… you’ll be fine!” Eppy enforced with as much optimism as he could forage for in the gloom that had since settled, “We’ll get through this day… The rest of the tour—You’ll be in yer element again before y’know it!! Okay?”

John managed a tired nod, trying his best to conceal his doubtful and despondent eyes, “Jus’ keep me out of the hospital…” he sleepily implored, suddenly worn by the overuse of his emotions and voice, “I don’t wan’ go back…”

Mal looked suddenly more troubled than he’d ever looked his entire life. Though it wasn’t readily obvious, Paul and Ringo caught it in a flash. Both Beatles began to wonder simultaneously just what exactly it was that the road manager wasn’t revealing.

“Bloody ‘ell, where’s the jet?” Eppy grumbled in surfacing frustration.


	23. I'll Be On My Way

For most of the flight, no one spoke and Ringo found it as a decent opportunity to cast a glance out a nearby window in a desperate search for any source of mental escape. He didn’t particularly mind flying but today especially; he couldn’t seem to shake the inexplicable feeling that the jet was something like a dungeon. An entrapment of sorts, complete with all the doom and gloom that would often encompass such unfortunate inescapable settings airplanes often provided. Windows were a must for him when it came to air transport as they would often help him not to feel so trapped and damn near claustrophobic. Plus he enjoyed being provided with the distracting thrill of being able to glance out the window, his awestruck gaze landing amid the clouds. Clouds had always been fascinating to Ringo. As a tot, he’d often stare at the sky and envision castles of the like floating amongst them and wonder for hours on end what treasures the skies beheld. Though such childish thoughts had since been put to rest through actual experience, he sometimes still liked to imagine that such separate worlds existed. Somehow, it helped him to feel a bit more grounded if that made any sense…

The sky’s ever-changing conditions would often lend a hand in captivation, as well… Or rather its many faces. Each daily or even hourly display was like a separate depiction of emotion. Rain was equivalent to sorrow and misery while in contrast; sunshine was equivalent to happiness and elation. Thunderstorms were like displays of anger and frustration while cloudiness or even fog seemed symbolic of grief. For the time being, a thin veil had positioned itself over the sun, giving it that lazy, hazy appearance that would often attach itself to mid-summer morning skies in the United States. It was as though a giant paintbrush had been dragged across it repeatedly until all defined outlines within it were reduced to the dull appearance that presented itself to the drummer at that very moment. The sun had lost most of its definition to this haze’s grip. As a result, the sky appeared almost blank. Indifferent, unreadable, apathetic if he were to attempt to apply human characteristics here. All the same, something seemed to be cooking up behind its veil. Something that gave the impression that what the oldest member of the Beatles was currently taking in was more than likely the calm before some kind of storm… A premonition… An _omen_ … _Were_ omens real? Even with his whimsical nature intact, Ringo liked to think not.

According to the telly, more storms were expected to roll in today as they had yesterday. Ahead of a cold front camped out in western portions of New England; they’d begin flaring up first in upper state New York and parts of Pennsylvania then move east, tackling Vermont and the western half of Massachusetts. From then on, they’d trek into New Hampshire, Connecticut, Rhode Island, eventually hitting New York City.

Storms were fantastic when viewed in flight if they could get near enough to one. Even the distant ones were breathtaking, particularly when set ablaze by the strained rays of a setting summer sun. They’d appear almost reddish in color, the clouds. And various portions of it would light up with the occurrence of embedded lightning. It was strangely like a silent musical; no sound to be heard but one could feel the intensity just the same. And if one looked closely enough, the actual streaks of lightning could be seen emanating from the cloud base, the intricate designs enhancing and contributing to nature’s show.

The storms weren’t forecast for New Jersey until much later that day but by the sound of it, it was intended to be quite a washout when they did eventually arrive. And truthfully, it didn’t take a meteorologist to be able to feel the changes already occurring in the atmosphere. The air was heavy and wet across the entire northeastern portion of the United States and this feeling of intense humidity was only expected to increase the further South one went… Ringo wasn’t looking forward to the projected humid conditions. Just the thought of heavy, oppressive air pushing down on him from all angles of his body proved absolutely off-putting and he was weirdly uncomfortable enough. Heat was one thing, but when mixed with extensively sultry air, it put an entirely different spin on things. The slightest human movement would lead to an all-out sweat-fest, and enthusiasm, as well as, food-intake, would as a result drop significantly… Something that would often prove to be a near calamity in the eyes of a consistently motivated Paul and an endlessly hungry George.

While England didn’t contribute much in terms of such stifling air masses, the band had been through more climate shock most recently than intended. Florida was by far the worst, humidity wise, as far as Ringo could see, and it hadn’t even been summer at the time of their stay. If New Jersey was to be anything like Florida, he might need to invest in some kind of an air-cooling system or anything similar to what the private jet was currently exhibiting. The cool air mixed with the quiet calm reigning successfully over the jet’s entire cabin was near bliss. It was everything that the drummer had been craving for endless hours now; more realistically, since leaving their hellish La Guardia airport experience behind. Ringo had been trying especially hard not to think about it since. He’d been trying especially hard to give off the impression that he’d left all negativities behind where they belonged. After all, bad thoughts only seemed to lead to more bad thoughts which in turn led to bad happenings… Bad happenings, eventuallycausing _all hell to irreversibly break_ — Ringo hastily shook his head forcing his detrimental thoughts to an abrupt end. Even if this had been the common theme recently, there was no use in jumping the gun. The drummer was becoming quite annoyed with himself by this point. More so with every minute.

Even _Paul_ had managed to keep his own thoughts at bay enough for him to a catch a much-needed kip. Paul. Worrywart Paul McCartney. So what was _his_ problem? He was Ringo for crying out loud. Ringo Starr, the lighthearted drummer of the Beatles. A ray of sunshine. Ringo, who was always looking endlessly for ways to lighten every situation with his uncanny ability to see the best in everything and everyone. In ways, he was even more an optimist than Paul. It was _hard_ to bring him down. Poke fun at him and he’d laugh it off and even poke additional fun at himself. It was who he was and his mates even admired him for it. So what was off here? He needed a way to calm himself and untangle his nerves… He needed a way to get his mind back on track… He _needed_ a smoke.

 _Unfortunately_ , such a method of achieving serenity wasn’t about to happen here in the sky where he needed it most. He’d tried early on, ten minutes or so into the flight. He had merely gotten around to taking in a minimal of two puffs before unintentionally sending Lennon into a severe coughing fit. What had been disquieting about the fact was that the rhythm guitarist had been in a dead sleep at the time and his own coughing, as violent as it had been, hadn’t even been enough to rouse him. Paul had anxiously and jokingly quipped that it should’ve been enough to wake the dead, let alone the subjected person. A few people had tittered nervously at this but no one _really_ laughed. It was as though they’d all been afraid to do so; even Paul, who’d spilled forth the joke in the first place though his regret had been imminent. By that point, Ringo had fearfully snuffed out his cigarette and Lennon’s fit came to a gradual end. He was still dead to the world even then. Completely unmoving. Had it not been for the continuous rising and falling of his chest, Ringo would’ve feared the worst…

Driven by fear of his own, Mal subsequently reached his breaking point shortly after; explosively yelling for everyone to hold off on smoking until they touched down. Ringo hadn’t been sure who ‘ _everyone’_ had been. After all, it had only been him who’d chosen to light up. But yet, Paul had been the recipient of his unpredictable fury, as well. Still no one dared to question the road manager. If the fact that something was bothering him hadn’t been clear before, it certainly had been then. It certainly was _now_ … The thought chilled Ringo to the very core. Perhaps, he’d just keep quiet like everyone else and try to catch a kip himself. Exhaustion due to surplus amounts of worries and concerns had long since been threatening to drown him. He was certain he’d be useless in a press conference and later on in performance if he didn’t attempt to redeem his waning energy supply. Solely sold on his choice for the better benefit of his health, he finally allowed himself to close his eyes… and after minutes passing into oblivion, began to ease into a dreamlike state.

The quavering of the seat beside him drew him unceremoniously back into present reality. Completely robbed of his bearings, Ringo tore his eyes open and turned to look blearily about him; the humdrum surrounding of the jet easing itself into lucidity. What had awoken him?

As if to answer his unasked question, more violent quavering emanated from beside him. Remembering that it was John who had seated himself beside him, Ringo acted quickly, his gaze landing with eagle-like precision on his younger mate. Sure enough, the rhythm guitarist was thrashing about in his sleep, his face twisted in a reactive grimace to some kind of nightmare he was having. Ringo stared at him a moment in fleeting wonderment before a feeling of immediate dread moved in to replace it. The ongoing display was quickly growing so unnatural; he could hardly stand it. Acting out of haste, he jumped into yet another panic-induced, desperate struggle to wake him.

“Johnny, ‘ey mate, _wake_ up!” he began quietly at first, gripping his arm with rigid fingers. When that didn’t work, he frantically picked up his tone, shaking him even harder in an increasingly anxious attempt to get him to comply. He was about to call for help when John’s eyes finally fluttered open and his unfocused gaze landed on him. There was no recognition within them. Ringo frowned worriedly. “Johnny… you all right, love?” he asked.

“ _You_!” John’s eyes narrowed on the drummer before he was even granted the chance to blink, “Toss Cyn off, will ye?”

Ringo’s eyes continued to grow wider in surprise bordering alarm, “Cyn? What’re ye’ on about? She’s not ‘ere, Johnny!”

“Y’know damned well what I’m talking ‘bout, Pete. I saw yer an’ her… y’fucking wanker… an’ now yer gon’ pay.”

John’s voice was lower and more menacing than Ringo had ever witnessed let alone been faced with. An icy chill trickled down his spine. “John, what’re ye’— Yer not… I’m not Pete!” Before the drummer could even begin to defend himself, John violently lunged for his neck with increasingly tightening fingers. “ _John_!!” Ringo found himself straining to shout whilst struggling with all his defensive might to fight him off. His attempted struggles weren’t working. Effort was always futile when faced with the nuclear bomb that was the physical side of Lennon’s anger. He had the upper hand. More than the upper hand. “ _Lennon_!!! _Please_ …” he managed to choke out.

“Ringo… what are ye’… _Jesus Christ, Lennon_!!” Ringo recognized Mal’s voice behind him at last. There was a resulting panic to which he was growing decreasingly aware of. A strange buzzing had begun to claim his ears and the cabin no longer seemed to hold the brightness it once had. He was… _suffocating_ …

Just as he was sure it was all about to go dark, fingers were forcefully pried from his neck and the weight was pulled off of him. Eventual light began to surpass the impending darkness threatening to overtake his vision.

“Ritch!! Are you all right??!” Eppy demanded; his voice loudly resonating air as it often would whenever he was struck with panic.

Across the aisle, Paul stirred in reaction to the sudden manifestation of the manager’s projected voice. “What’s going on?” he asked, his dozy gaze landing first on Eppy and then Ringo. His eyes widened copiously as he intently drew in Ringo’s face, startlingly almost bluish in color. The drummer was gasping profusely as though he couldn’t quite get enough air into his lungs. “Rings?” he gasped, sleep’s stubborn grip expelling itself from his mind as the intrusive realization that something was truly wrong sunk in, “Are you all right?”

“He’s fine,” Eppy responded without turning to look at him, “Just had a bit of a mishap is all.”

“ _Mishap_?” Paul hastily found himself questioning, “Well, what happened?”

No one responded and the bassist was left to attempt to figure things out for himself. As he turned to look about him, he was suddenly aware that Lennon was no longer where’d he been prior to his dozing off. Where was he? “Where’s John?” he asked impulsively as Ringo began to hack uncontrollably.

Still focused on Ringo, Brian pointed towards the head of the jet.

Slowly, as though afraid of where it might lead, Paul followed the indicated direction of his manager’s index finger towards his source of inquiry. What he saw made his eyes pop and his jaw drop. The distant not to mention _frightening_ scene untangling itself before him was everything enough to bring the blood racing through his every vein to a complete and frozen halt. John was there all right. John was there, complete with his deeply flushed face, disheveled hair, and eyes wild and unfocused. John was there… and under restraint… by _Mal_ ; every last part of him looking as though it wanted desperately to break free and tear ferociously into the road manager. He didn’t even _look_ like John at the moment. What the fuck had happened? This _had_ to be some kind of a sick and twisted joke. It wasn’t any hidden secret that Lennon was capable of such behavior. But even this seemed to be in poor taste for him. Then again, Lennon most certainly hadn’t been in his head all day…

“What’s he doing? What’s happened?” Paul asked, his voice, once robbed by the revelation of his eyes, finally recovering itself.

Again, no one responded. _Bloody hell_ … Paul turned to look beside him. George was still sleeping. Probably for the better.

“That’s it, Johnny… yer all right now,” Mal currently coaxed, drawing Paul’s eyes back in their direction. John had stopped fighting finally and looked to be in a near stupor. Even with the spiraling exhaustion waiting on the wings to fully claim him as it was, the amount of confusion on his face fighting to make itself known was overshadowing. Overwhelming.

“What happened?” the rhythm guitarist croaked emotionlessly, his detached gaze fighting to meet Mal’s.

“From my standpoint, you awoke, thought Ringo was someone else, and tried to choke ‘im.”

John’s impossibly haggard face whitened several shades before falling a considerable amount at the onset of the revelation. “I _what_?”

Mal nodded worriedly, confirming the guitarist’s fears, “I think it’s time I give ye’ something more for that fever of yers. Something to tie ye’ over until I can finally arrange for that doctor to double check yer condition. I’m a little worried about you,” he reluctantly revealed, his words hanging portentously in the gloom-filled air.

John said nothing, his lack of response showing entirely how guilt-ridden and sick he was over what had nearly transpired.

The color had returned to Ringo’s face by now and his breathing had returned to normal. Aside from some redness around his neck, there were no present sign of the recent struggle or ‘ _mishap_ ’ as Eppy had dismissively so chosen to put it.

“Are you sure yer all right, Rings?” Paul found himself asking for what seemed like the thousandth time since Eppy had returned to his seat.

“Yeah… I’m fine, Paul,” Ringo responded, with yet another smile to offer him. He’d offered him a smile every time the bassist had dared to question him but now he was quickly growing tired of the whole ordeal. He _was_ fine for chrissakes. It was John everyone should be tuned into. John. John was the one that… Ringo couldn’t even bring himself to add to the mental statement he was about to make. He’d wanted to go to John and sit beside him, let him know that he hadn’t hurt him… _not really_ … But Eppy had advised him against it.

“John’s fine under Mal’s supervision,” he had told him, “I’d rather you just let him rest.”

But John was _not_ fine. Ringo had been able to see it clearly in his face after Mal had bluntly let on to him what had just taken place. Lennon was internally tearing himself apart. He was mentally beating himself up… Reverting to his self-destructive ways… He didn’t need to be left alone. He needed assurance… and then reassurance on top of assurance.

The drummer wasn’t sure how much longer he sat staring remorsefully at John, but eventually, his racing mind slowed down enough so that sleep could take him away from it all. Time was lost as a result and before long, they were on the very verge of touching down in brand new territory.

“We’re here boys!” Eppy cheerfully called out, “Look alive!”

Both Paul and Ringo stirred from the renewed bit of light sleep they’d somehow been able to catch. John and George didn’t move.

“Up and at ‘em, Johnny, Geo!” Brian gleefully persisted as the jet began its graceful descent from the upper levels of the atmosphere, “ _Welcome_ to New Jersey!”

“New Jersey?” George sat up suddenly and scrubbed sleep from his eyes, “Already?” He cleared his throat, hoarse from sleep.

 _Already_ … Ringo nearly scoffed out loud. If he only knew what had gone on that entire time he’d been asleep. Lucky bloke. Or _was_ he lucky? Ringo glanced to him with a bit of present worry. Was the fact that he’d slept through everything a sign of deterioration? He couldn’t take much more of this bloody transcending rubbish…

“Time flies when y’manage t’sleep it all away, Geo,” Mal commented casually, glancing to him with a bit of wonder, “How’re ye’ feeling?”

George thought a bit before managing a shrug, “All right,” he croaked. He frowned at the way his voice continued to present itself, “I… think…” he added. He coughed and attempted to clear away the rasp. The stubborn rasp won out, launching him into an unexpected coughing fit.

“Easy, Geo!” Paul exclaimed in immediate surprise, giving him a gentle reactive pat on the back. His own eyes, almost green in the ambient lighting of the jet, were full of concern as he studied him all the while, “All right, love?”

George found himself gagging in a forceful effort to stifle the afflicting cough attack. Eventually, he vigorously cleared his throat, the act ending the fit once and for all. His eyes were watering and his cheeks a fiery red as he lifted his resultantly pounding head to take in all the worried eyes staring at him in pronounced worry. “I-I’m all right,” he hoarsely assured everyone, wincing at the sound of his voice.

“Lozenges,” Eppy announced assertively as though they were the main source of all healing power, “We’ll ‘ave to get a hold of some. Perhaps, there will be some available at the conference! You’ll be all right for the conference, Geo, won’t ye’?”

“‘S’just a bit of a scratchy throat, really… and a slight bit of a ‘eadache…” George replied, trying his best to pass it all off as only a slight insignificance.

“Has the aspirin taken the edge off any?” Mal asked. His eyes though scrutinizing held a bit of nearly imperceptible apprehension within them.

George knew what he was indirectly indicating with those troubled eyes of his. This was a lot like yesterday’s situation involving John. The headache… the sore throat… How long before he-- The lead guitarist forced the ominous thought to terminate itself with an involuntary shudder. Thinking about anything on those terms, made it seem all the more inescapable… predetermined… _fated_.

“George, is the aspirin helping _or_ isn’t it?” Mal repeated urgently.

George struggled to conceal the startled tremor that proceeded to course up his spine at the abruptness of Mal’s words. “A bit,” he avowed finally, struggling to perfect his most reassuring smile, “I’ll be all right… It’ll kick in eventually… at some point.” _And all will be fine_ as had eventually panned out with the lurgy… The lurgy… Something dawned on him right then. He’d already _had_ the lurgy, hadn’t he? Bloody thing had managed to take over much more of this tour than he even cared to remember. So what was this current virus beginning to wear on his body? A cold? A separate flu virus? But what if it wasn’t? Could one get back an illness after giving it away? If he’d gotten Lennon sick in the first place, could Lennon then _return_ the favor with the same illness? It didn’t seem likely and it didn’t seem like anything he’d ever personally experienced before. Did John _even_ have the lurgy? If not, then what did that mean for _him_? George shuddered again against his will.

It was then when the lead guitarist realized that John was no longer seated next to Ringo as he’d been before he’d fallen asleep. Instead he was up front beside Mal… evidently still fast asleep. Had something taken place while he’d been busy lost in his own kip? What could have happened?

“Allow _me_ to make that verification on yer behalf, Harrison,” Mal presently stated, startling George from his uninvited reverie.

“What verification?” George asked, turning his attention back towards him.

“Whether or not you’re feeling as proper as ye’ even let on,” Mal responded without the slightest bit of hesitation.

Before George knew what was happening, the band’s road manager had risen to his feet despite the rules binding them to their seats and stooped down in the middle of the aisle that had separated the Beatles two by two. George braced himself knowing now the sequence of events that were about to unfold.

“Y’don’t ‘ave to shut yer eyes, Geo, I’m only checking your temperature,” Mal gently revealed, a small amused smile panning out across his face.

“I find that ‘elps with the suspense,” George responded without missing a beat.

Mal chuckled and allowed the lead guitarist to carry forth with his self-comforting ritual. Gently, while deftly balancing himself on the tilting floors of the descending jet, he applied to his forehead, the back of his hand.

“Well?” George questioned, cracking an eye open. He hated suspense, _especially_ when it involved him. He’d rather things just be in the open. Life was less stressful that way…

“You’ve still got a bit of a fever…” Mal revealed reluctantly. He looked worried for a moment before managing to get his emotions under control. “I’ve really got to schedule that appointment with a doctor,” he muttered.

“Which doctor?” Ringo inquired, “Surely not that quack that dealt with John yesterday?”

“Not unless y’wish to fly him out from New York,” Mal turned to face him with a lighthearted but apprehensive smile.

Ringo made a face, “He can stay there.”

The jet hit the runway with a slight jolt and skidded along for several moments at a time before coming to an eventual and gradual halt.

“Well, that’s our cue!” Brian merrily stated after a while, “Stay close, boys, and get ready to greet yer fans! Remember, this is yer first time in New Jersey so it’s important that you look alive!!” Without waiting for the response that he knew he was unlikely to get anyway, he rose from his seat first and signaled animatedly for all to begin evacuation. One person at a time, the jet began to unload, the entourage first, then Eppy, and eventually the Beatles; John having been awoken by that point. Mal brought up the rear.

The security was far from at a standstill here. In fact, the Beatles were certain they had never seen so many security guards in one setting before, even when compared to New York! What could it mean? Were there simply more people here or were they just more likely to get out of hand? George sighed heavily as he glanced down from the top of the jet’s stairwell. With their luck, it was probably both…

“It’ll be all right, Harri,” Paul confidently cajoled him with pronounced optimism as though sensing his heavy mood, “We’ll be out of this mess before we all know it. If y’didn’t already know, the Beatles are capable of anything.”

“That might be so, but no one said we were invincible,” George responded matter-of-factly.

Paul shrugged, and started first down the stairs, failing to even flinch in the slightest as excited cries rose up to meet him. George began to wonder if the bassist was possibly half-robot in his ability to remain routinely unfazed in the face of such noise and insanity provided regularly by their adoring fans. _Already_ , the racket was killing him and he’d hardly left the jet yet. This must’ve been how John had felt yesterday… Probably how he _still_ felt… George found himself shuddering yet again at the ready-made comparison in his steadily throbbing head. Such thoughts weren’t what he needed at the moment. Things were getting out of hand enough as they were. Remaining uninspired by Paul’s attempt at providing encouragement, the lead guitarist took in a deep, slightly painful breath before daring to follow gingerly in his footsteps.

John was in a considerable daze as he descended the stairs next, lagging slightly behind George. He was a quarter of the way down, when he unexpectedly lost his footing. He would’ve tumbled down at a startling and uncomforting speed, possibly taking George, Paul, and Eppy out along the way had Ringo not reached out to help steady him. He’d been keeping a close eye on the rhythm guitarist, anyway; taking note of all the small things that pointed towards the blatant fact that he still felt quite off. Most alarming, was the undeniable pallor that just wouldn’t leave his face. He was dreadfully and permanently pale; a recently acquired hue that proved just as unnerving as his illness itself. Even beneath that equally persistent, feverish flush, he was _much_ too pale; his appearance practically mirroring the characteristics of a zombie. To further strengthen such comparisons, those unnatural, prominent, sickly bags beneath his dull lackluster eyes, along with an unsettling absence of that vibrant Lennon spark practically settled it, leaving little if any room for debate…

“This way, Johnny.” Ringo called from behind him as they began the trek through wild and unruly fans towards the airport entrance.

John blinked, “ _What_?”

Ringo smiled gently, “You’d probably fare better following the band, not the fans.”

John turned to give his surroundings a gander right then, taking notice that the back of George’s head had somehow manifested into that of a long-haired redhead. “Oh… he shook his head to clear it, “I know… that…” After searching a while, he was able to seek out the guitarist located directly to his left. Practically right in front of his nose yet he’d allowed himself to get sidetracked… Maybe it was all the bloody noise and commotion that surrounded them. His eyes and ears still didn’t seem to be working quite right. Things were almost deafening at times…and sometimes they’d escalate to near blinding in which he’d literally have to stop just to get a grip on his bearings which were usually spinning about him by the point of escalation.

Ringo frowned, taking in his appearance with a bit of uncertainty, “Are you all right, love? You seem a bit out of it.”

“Wouldn’t be anything new…” John mumbled, gazing at Ringo with some remorse present.

Ringo could easily tell what he eating at him. He knew that the rhythm guitarist, as he often would, had reverted back to the troubling string of events that had taking place on the flight. “It’s all right, Johnny,” he whispered, trying his best to get him to see it similarly, as well.

But John shook his head stubbornly, “No… ‘s’not… all right…” he quietly responded.

“But it is!” Ringo insisted, “You ‘aven’t hurt me any!”

“What if there wasn’t anyone around to bring me to me senses, Rings?” John asked, his emotionless eyes, markedly staring not at Ringo but apparently through him, “What would’ve ‘appened then?”

“Y’can’t look at it that way, Johnny!” Ringo protested, “Look at the positives!”

John scoffed bitterly, “M’not even sure what those are anymore. Open yer eyes, Ritch. I could’ve fucking killed ye’.”

Ringo frowned, finding there weren’t enough words in the dictionary to make this situation right. John was beginning to worry him more than ever now.

“There you are!!” Eppy stated with utmost relief as his band filtered in through the New Jersey airport entrance. “I was beginning to get worried!” He’d sported a grin at the initial sight of them but the facial expression quickly faded as his gaze landed chiefly on John. The rhythm guitarist came across much too pale for his liking. “You all right?” he demanded, immediate concern beginning to take him over for the umpteenth time in only two days.

John nodded. Words were too hard to come by at this point. Really, he just wanted to sleep. He wasn’t sure how it was remotely possible but he was growing more tired all the time…

Eppy frowned, finding he didn’t believe him for even a second. Rather than address it though, he heaved a sigh and turned away. “Let’s go, boys,” he sighed, his demeanor changing to come across with an air of defeat, “You know the drill by now. The limo awaits.”

The four Beatles lagged slightly behind as Brian rushed ahead, weaving this way and that like he had every idea where he was headed; where _they_ were headed.


	24. Act Naturally

The Beatles could always tell when they were nearing a point of destination. First, the amount of people in a proposed area would increase significantly and dramatically. And if that weren’t enough of a sign, their ears would soon serve as reliable sources of backup confirmation. Currently, the Beatles didn’t need their ears to do the talking. The amount of insanity that overwhelmed their eyes was enough to foretell just what exactly it was they were getting their hands and feet into. People were everywhere, each and every one of them crammed into every last square inch of the site arranged specifically and carefully for playing host to the four young lads from Liverpool. It was as though the entire state of New Jersey had been tipped off about their impending press conference and everyone had willingly dropped all things that would otherwise have been deemed of obligatory importance to witness their arrival. It was as if the public’s need to confirm with their very eyes that it wasn’t all some form of an elaborate hoax was overbearing, therefore making it ‘mandatory’ to achieve bystander status.

Judging by the way things were developing thus far, it somewhat set the Beatles’ minds at ease to see that the particular setup that accompanied this press hotspot was even more security-sound than even the airport was. The fact that things would probably surge to unfathomable levels of madness seemed inevitable. There was a lot of crying going on here. Flat-out bawling. Those who didn’t have their emotion on such a physical level of display were in catatonic shock, it seemed, and many had fainted at the sight of their limo alone. Deafening didn’t even begin to sum up the atmosphere here either. Even with the windows closed, the Beatles could hear these endless cries of pleasure as though there was merely nothing separating them from the repeated verbal assaults; as though there wasn’t a closed in vehicle keeping them out of the immediate noise pollution. George couldn’t help cringing at the feared thought of actually having to take on such a crowd behind this audibly torturous mess. Despite this being the norm, it somehow seemed so unfathomably ominous… all of it. Mal had casually warned the band of such potential happenings, revealing to them that due to existing circumstances, an anticipated increase in barmy behavior from fans was expected, resulting in a mandatory increase in security to balance it all out.

“You must understand,” he had elaborated from his seat across from the Beatles, “This is brand new territory for you boys. Your fans here have never had the chance of gaining a gander at you in any way other than on the telly. This is probably all they’ve dreamed about. Things are bound to get as hectic as was your first time in America!”

“It still doesn’t make this any less unnerving,” George had muttered, gesturing tiredly out the window from where he had sat nuzzled up in his claimed corner of the limo.

“Unnerving’s quite the understatement,” Paul had surprised everyone by commenting.

As it turned out, Mister Public Relations wasn’t looking any more forward to this up and coming event than anyone else was. Surprise, surprise. _Perhaps he wasn’t a robot after all_ , George had found himself musing after the fact. With a scoff, he wondered vaguely what such a turning point regarding their bassist’ deteriorating self-assured-pre-fan-greeting-behavior could possibly mean for everything that was in store. He shook his head as he contemplated it, his gaze hypnotically fixated out the window at the wild sea of people that seemed to consist of the entire region of this new and foreign state. For all he knew, the entire region _was_ here. The potential revelation did nothing to ease his viewpoint of things. This was madness. And he couldn’t blame Paul one bit for finally wiping that perpetual ‘everything’s-fine-and-dandy-even-if-it-isn’t’ fan-pleasing grin from his face.

From day one, George had never entirely been on board with the whole irrational idea of their fans being so captivated by them. Sure they were a band and sure they were musically inclined, but they were still people for crying out loud. Neither he nor any of his band mates were so different from any one of their fanatics that any obsessions should need to be formed by anyone let alone fans. George knew he was the most humbled of all the Beatles. It was a known fact that John and Paul, on any given day, would often bask in all the glory of attention they’d receive. Even Ringo would get his kicks from it. But George, he just couldn’t seem to wrap himself around something so puzzling, mindboggling, and, dare he think it, _disturbing_. He couldn’t seem to get himself past wondering what it was that four lads from Liverpool could possibly have done in less than a lifetime to deserve so much endless love and attention. It would always set him a bit on edge; though more so today than usual. Truthfully, he was dreading this event something terrible along with every additional one that hugged the horizon. Maybe it was because he was starting to feel like complete shit… Maybe it was nagging feelings of dread eating up every living cell of his brain. He knew already that Lennon was on board with his current thoughts and feelings but he had to wonder if anyone else could truly and fully relate.

On a lighter note, signs were everywhere on display as they often would be at places of their anticipated arrival. ‘I Love You!’ George had been able to make out on several occasions. Most were followed up by McCartney’s or Lennon’s name, but it warmed his heart to some extent to see that there were signs scattered in the mix portraying love for him and Ringo, as well. Most depictions grouped them all together, some went as far as to demand hand in marriage. Some were even disturbingly vulgar in suggestion— the majority of those strictly for Paul and John. The lead guitarist couldn’t help a fleeting feeling of wanting to laugh at the extent of the way these people seemed intent on portraying and fantasizing about them. It was so ridiculously, utterly unreal.

The limo came to a halt alongside a curb where their destined pathway began. Thrilled screams seemed to increase in volume, sounding ironically as though someone or several people rather were being murdered. _Of course_ , that was a preposterous comparison— _somewhat_. Though innocent lives probably _weren’t_ being robbed from what he could tell, George couldn’t help morbidly thinking that murder was taking place, anyway. Murder of his once wholesome hearing. _Murder_ of his entire skull; once functioning and intact.

“Don’t move until I say so,” Mal spoke suddenly, his stern voice everything enough to revive George from his derange reverie. The lead guitarist pulled his attention from the commanding window scenes and saw that their road manager was preparing himself to exit the limo in order to fulfill his established ritual of verifying the presence and preparedness of security.

“We know, Mal!” Paul and Ringo chorused, seeming more alert now that hype-induced adrenaline had begun to take them over. George grimaced at their blended voices, wondering where they’d gotten their adrenaline from all of a sudden. Whatever the source was, it had skipped him altogether. Heat did too apparently. He was bloody cold and the others didn’t seem to be all that bothered by it. Even John seemed all right in his soundly sleeping state. Then again, the amount of red-hot fever burning his body from the inside out wasn’t the easiest to overlook.

“Well, it’s my job to make sure that everyone properly understands their rolls considering the monster we’re about to be faced with,” Mal took the time to hurriedly explain. Without another word of rationalization, he urgently exited the limo leaving behind Eppy and the band and additional feelings of dread.

“Monster…” George mumbled, sticking a finger into one of his ringing ears, “He’s not so far off, y’know. This is possibly the most threatening monster I’ve ever been faced with.”

Paul smirked in slight amusement but didn’t laugh off or dismiss the absurdity of his words as other situations might have found him doing. George had the feeling it was simply due to the fact that somewhere deep within him, he actually agreed.

“Yer not stepping out too, Eppy?” Ringo asked, turning to him.

Eppy shook his head, “I’ll be escorting you boys inside the moment Mal clears me able to do so.”

“Hopefully sooner than later,” George muttered, fighting off a visible shiver, “It’s a bit chilly in ‘ere, really. Wish I had me coat.”

Paul turned to him with an arched eyebrow of projected concern, “Are ye’ really cold, Geo?” he questioned bluntly in disbelief, “It’s _got_ to be near 85 degrees in here!”

George shivered again, his inescapable misery beginning to get the best of him, “Hate to break it to ye’ but it doesn’t quite feel that way, Macca,” he muttered grudgingly, “I’ve found more warmth in a London rainstorm.”

“It’s supposed to reach 95 today, I think,” Paul revealed, a thoughtful look overtaking him as he attempted to confirm the bit of information in the back of his mind, “Heard it on the telly back at the airport.”

“And that means what to me?” George irritably snapped.

Paul shrugged, “I don’t know… that y’must be sick because it’s bloody warm out. 95 is bloody stifling, really!”

“ _95_?? _Celsius_?!” Ringo exclaimed, Paul’s projected forecast finally sinking in. He looked suddenly horrified at the thought, “Bloody ‘ell, we’ll burn to a bleedin’ crisp!!”

Paul laughed at the blatant alarm showing on the drummer’s face, “That’s Fahrenheit, love,” he clarified for him, “Do us all a favor and keep yer knickers on.”

“Americans and their bloody Fahrenheit…” George mused contemplatively. He shivered yet again, “Still don’t think it’s quite that warm out, though.”

Ringo turned to him with a frown and after looking him over a moment and taking note of the small tremors coursing through his body, settled a hand across his forehead, “Ye’ sure yer not feeling bad?” he asked worriedly, “You’ve got the chills pretty awful. It’s ‘onestly not that cold in ‘ere that anyone should be shivering quite as much as y’seem to be.”

Paul nodded in agreement.

“How’s he feel, Ritch?” Eppy asked, glancing to George with more concern than the lead guitarist was keen on receiving.

“Pretty feverish, the poor lad…” Ringo sighed worriedly, “Kinda reminds me of how John felt yesterday, hours before he passed into the land of delirium.”

George scowled at the news. “Don’t be bloody daft, Ritchie! That’s got nothing to do with anything!”

“He’s not so daft, Harri,” Paul quietly murmured, “We’ll most definitely be keeping our eye on you.”

George made a face. “‘S’there any way we can speed up the hands of time to get through this stupid day?” he grumbled.

“I wish we could, love,” Paul sighed sympathetically. He looked suddenly worried but turned away before Ringo could catch on and question him. George’s frown lengthened.

“I think we should wake John while we’re at it,” Eppy suddenly declared, sitting up and glancing at his watch, “Mal should be commanding our attention any moment now.”

Ringo frowned, turning his attention from George towards the notably comatose rhythm guitarist. He’d been sleeping soundly since the limo had departed the airport. “ _Wake_ John?” he questioned softly, taking an immediate aversion to the idea, “Again?”

Brian nodded, “And if you’re worried about the unfortunate reaction you received last time while on the jet, you shouldn’t be. Mal’s taken care of all his medicinal needs.”

Paul sharply scoffed, fixing Brian with a sudden and impulsive glare, “So naturally ye’ go on assuming that everything’s hunky-dory now that our rhythm guitarist’s all drugged up?” he sneered with uncharacteristic and unexpected menace.

“Tell me, Paul,” Eppy muttered, turning to face him with as calm a demeanor as he could portray in the face of his growing anger, “What would _you_ do in such a pressed and demanding situation?”

“Take him to a hospital and forget the rest,” Paul answered without missing a beat, his large, earnest eyes burning into Eppy’s with all the challenge in the world.

“So the conference get’s done away with?”

“The conference, the show, the whole bleedin’ tour!!” Paul harshly elaborated, “John had a seizure, Eppy! A _seizure_! And a second ago, he tried to strangle Ringo because he didn’t recognize him! Ringo!! Sweet Ringo who’d just as soon walk away from a fight to save a friendship rather than cause it to escalate,” The bassist shook his head in still present disbelief towards the extent of the earlier happening, “ _Open_ yer eyes, Brian! I get it. I get how y’see things. Lennon’s breathing, he’s talking, he’s _functioning_ fer chrissakes!! But that doesn’t justify fer a _second_ that everything’s okay. It’s _not_ okay! ‘ _S’not_!!! It ‘asn’t been for…for god knows how long now… And me…I can’t sit ‘ere and watch this. I--”

“Paul!” Ringo cut in, his blue eyes widening in alarm.

The bassist shook his head, waving off the drummer’s attempt at diverting his attention. “It’s making me mad… ‘S’making me—” Paul’s voice broke unexpectedly, and wiping away un-fallen tears from his cheeks, he defiantly shifted his gaze out the window, away from the eyes he knew now burned into his back.

“Paul…” Eppy’s tone had softened tenfold now, “Have faith, Paul. John will be…” There was too long a pause before the manager tried again, “John’ll be fine. He’s a tough lad.”

“Don’t y’think I _know_ how tough he is?” Paul snapped, his gaze still fixated on the calamity of the outside world, “I’ve known him longer than anyone ‘ere. He’s tough but he’s not invincible. I can’t—I don’t want to… I don’t want to see…” His voice trailed off again, probably for the better. He’d more than likely end up bawling like some bleeding nancy boy the way he was carrying on. It most certainly wouldn’t be his proudest moment and not the sort of mess he wanted to plunge himself into moments before he would have to face his fans. _He didn’t want to see something happen to John_ … was what his mouth had openly wanted to proclaim before his mind had hurried to shut the door on such words. Why had he chosen not to go on and say them? It seemed it would set reality in stone. John was his best friend. His mate. He didn’t know what he would do if ever faced with the disaster of losing him.

“Jesus Christ…” Eppy muttered under his breath. But he said nothing more on the subject, knowing now that something most definitely had to be done. Paul was right. There really was something wrong with Lennon, wasn’t there? And ignorance _wasn’t_ bliss. Sure it made things seem like they were okay for the time being within one’s mind, but it didn’t dare to help erase what was truly happening outside… in the real world. In the real world, John was very sick and getting sicker all the time. In the real world, George was getting sick, possibly just as sick… In the real world, this was all happening. Happening in the land of reality where one’s life mattered as much as one’s death. Still, it was such a risk to just throw away everything he’d sank loads of money into. They would need to hold on just a bit longer. Get through the conference at least, which would allow more than enough time for him and Mal to figure out what it was they were going to do about things.

A knock on the window startled them and Paul turned just in time to catch Mal frantically beckoning to them, “Let’s go!” he was impatiently mouthing through the glass.

Eppy surfaced slowly from his daze in a manner similar to a sleepy bear emerging from its den in the middle of a January thaw, and jumped to sudden attention, “Right!” he announced as though all was suddenly right with the world. He shook off the forlorn mood that had wrapped itself thickly around his mind and plastered on the most genuine smile he could muster, “This is it, lads! Brace yourselves… Things are guaranteed to get a bit disorderly.”

Paul started to open his mouth with a biting remark but Ringo quickly jumped in as though sensing the foul string of words the bassist was about to free from the barricades of his mind. “Nothing we can’t ‘andle, I’m sure!” he asserted confidently with a feigned grin.

Paul scowled at him but backed down, nonetheless, turning his attention instead to his still slumbering best mate. “It’s time to wake up, Johnny,” he found himself coaxing, his tone lacking all the enthusiasm it would normally hold.

John faintly stirred but showed no immediate signs of waking. Paul heaved a flustered sigh and began the long drawn out struggle of waking the rhythm guitarist. It shouldn’t be so hard, he found himself thinking all the while. It should _never_ be so hard!

John came to rather sluggishly this time around, one startlingly lackluster pupil reluctantly greeting the natural lighting of the world.

“That’s it, Lennon,” Paul kept on persistently, “Rise and shine.”

John cautiously opened his other eye and scrubbed gingerly at his face, intensely flushed from deep sleep and the persistent presence of fever, “What time is it?” he croaked, taking a moment to glance jadedly about him once his eyes had adjusted enough to the lighting.

“Never mind that. How’re ye’ feeling, love?” Ringo jumped in.

John’s eyes glazed over momentarily as he attempted to mull over the answer. “Head’s throbbing…” he murmured after a while.

“Badly?” George asked, turning towards John with piqued concern as well as wonder.

John looked as though the mere habitual act of thinking was becoming harder by the minute. “Heavily…” he whispered. He caught sight of the wild, surrounding scene unfolding beyond the sheet of glass he’d slept against, opposite George, “Where are we?” he asked, his words slurring slightly together from what the others hoped to be drowsiness.

“We’re at the site of the press conference,” Brian informed him with a bit of a sad smile, “I know you don’t feel well but… do you think you’ll be all right to go through with it?”

The blank stare John presented him with, gave way to a weak and wavering smile, “Of course!”

“You’re going to need to make your way from here to that building over there,” Eppy pointed out the window, directing Lennon’s wearied gaze with his hand, “Think you have it in you?”

“I’m _John Lennon_ , love,” John stated overconfidently, his smile, growing more impish by the minute, still in place. He was still slurring his words quite notably.

Eppy, blushing significantly at Lennon’s chosen way with words, didn’t seem to notice. _Love_. Concentrating on trying to hide his growing blush, he moved over-exaggeratedly to open the limo door. Had he been able to hold his gaze on John’s face a moment longer, he might’ve taken notice of the resulting commanding wince induced by the noise pollution he’d inadvertently let into the private calm quarters of the limo cabin.

“Let’s give this your best shot then,” Eppy murmured, struggling to remain focused on the task at hand.

Wincing still an incredible amount, John, closest to the designated path, gravitated lethargically towards the open door and began his exit; immediately shielding his eyes against the extreme sunshine bearing down on the surrounding pavement. Each ray of light was like a heated dagger for his burning and aching retinas. He took his first shaky step in the intended direction of travel, fighting off the growing nuisance of flash photography all the while, and down he went. Face first.

“John!!” Eppy jumped out of the limo after him.

Clamoring in escalation, the others started to jump out after him, surprise and worry momentarily surpassing logic.

“Stay back!” Eppy ordered of them, somehow finding the time to fear for their safety should a sudden riot break out.

Three-fourths of the Beatles froze in their tracks.

John didn’t react even as Eppy proceeded to desperately jostle a response from him. “John… you all right?” the manager timidly found himself croaking worriedly. There was a sudden escalation of noise from surrounding spectators. Security shifted into overdrive.

“Bloody hell, Lennon… When does it all stop…?” Brian whispered pleadingly. He hastily eased John onto his back, exposing his face to the world as the others worriedly looked on from a safe distance. John reacted limply and lifelessly, looking to have had the wind brutally knocked from him. Frowning deeply, and not knowing quite what else to do, the manager blindly began tapping his face with light repeated slaps in desperate hopes to generate some form of response. Any form of response. The rhythm guitarist was much too pale for his liking. “Bloody hell…” Eppy sighed again as Mal and several others rushed to the scene of misfortune.

“What happened?” Mal demanded, kneeling beside John without hesitation. The road manager immediately went to work contributing forth his own attempts to bring him round.

“I don’t know,” Eppy murmured tiredly, “…He just fell…”

John groaned suddenly and coughed; the much anticipated response nearly passing inaudibly in all the surrounding ear-splitting noise. He grimaced subsequently at the resulting pain the action brought to his body and groaned some more.

Mal lowered his inquisitive gaze from Brian back to him, his facial expression meanwhile hardening to pure concern, “All right, Johnny? Can you hear me?”

John coughed again and opened his eyes finally with pronounced reluctance.

Mal repeated the first of his two questions, “All right, John?”

“…Fine…” the guitarist hesitantly murmured, his face displaying as much confusion as had been the ‘norm’ on this particular day.

“Can you get up? Can you walk?”

John shook his head to clear it and squeezed his eyes shut a moment in a struggle to remember as well as gather his bearings. “Yeah…” he mumbled after a while, looking a bit more coherent now in regards to what had just taken place.

“Let’s get you up then.” Both Mal and an additional security guard helped to guide his upper body off the pavement and within moments, he was back on his feet, though lacking a considerable amount of stability. “Steady now.” Mal found himself whispering in as calming a manner as the shock of the unforeseen situation would let him. He worriedly placed a steadying and supporting hand to the back of the shoulder closest to him, “All right?” he asked again.

John nodded, the action bringing great pain to his face.

Mal heaved a sigh, “I should hope so,” he murmured wearily, “Go on then. Let’s get you in. I’m right behind you.”

John looked oddly unsure of himself as he obeyed Mal’s orders.

“I’m calling the hospital and demanding to know all they have on John as soon as we get to that dressing room,” Mal took a moment to briefly whisper to Epstein, “It’s been long enough.” He didn’t bother waiting for a response from him before turning to follow behind Lennon.

Eppy’s face held all the fear in the world as he watched them walk off. He quickly snapped out of it as the reminder that time was in fact still ticking down claimed his attention. “You’re next, Geo,” he whispered quietly, “You all right?”

“Brilliant…” George mumbled. But Eppy could see through the surfacing ruse. The lead guitarist looked like a petrified baby deer. As he moved to greet the sunshine and fans, he broke out into a wince similar to what Lennon had melted into at the initial introduction to the noise.

Every muscle in Eppy’s body tensed as he took this in. “You’ll be all right?” he asked again, fear creeping once again into his already too tense features.

George nodded with a bit of unexpected vehemence, “I’m _not_ John, Brian,” he growled, “I’m not about to meet any of his fates!!”

“While that maybe so, that’s not quite the point, Geo!” Eppy sighed. But he let the lead guitarist carry on with such self-protective words.

“Yer up, Rings,” Eppy impatiently prodded him next.

Ringo eased himself out from the limo and started cautiously in George’s path while Paul did the same behind him. Screams sounded on and on as they trudged on through the onslaught, like mountain hikers through an unexpected snowstorm stirred up by the will of Mother Nature. Signs were thrust in their faces, fans tried to grab at them.

George was more than thankful for the presence of the barriers designed to keep them all back. He was also thankful for the wideness of this particular foraged path especially following the unanticipated mishap of losing a sleeve yesterday to some fan due to the fact that the walkway hadn’t been spacious enough to completely annihilate all forms of contact. They’d been funneled into this narrow space, therefore allowing for some barmy bird to grab hold of his sleeve. It was unpredictable occurrences of the sort that they were constantly up against. It was the unexpected happenings involving some of their dearest fans that would often discourage him and consequently proceed to set him on edge.

George wiped some sweat from his brow beginning to feel every ounce of discomfort the outdoors had to offer. He wasn’t sure when the transition had taken place but suddenly it was much too hot beneath the intensifying summer sun. The pathway, despite its many positive attributes, was quickly growing brutal in other ways now. George hadn’t quite had the chance to take real notice before but there was a slight incline to it. His legs were beginning to ache something awful as they took on the slope, as was his back… Even his arms were beginning to ache with the effort. And the noise… Each one of their fans had to have been equipped with a set of lungs that could rival the breaking of the sound barrier.

Eventually, the seemingly endless climb came to an end and he found himself on much sought out level ground. Fans were scattered everywhere now; each one of them apparently having nowhere else to look but directly at him and his band mates. Their eyes were trained on their every move as though daring one of them to trip or fall or create some kind of embarrassing blunder for the waiting press to tear to shreds. George hoped he wouldn’t be the source of such a slip-up. Poor John had caused enough muddled lapses in the past day alone to last all four of them a lifetime’s worth. Perhaps these people were all looking for some kind of hot and heavy Beatle shagging… Needless to say, they were looking in the wrong place… Every single one of them.

“George Harrison, won’t you let me be your baby?” a distinct female voice questioned. The accent was peculiar… not quite like the New York accents he’d recently grown accustomed to, but peculiar just the same.

“I could be that ‘ _nice teen date’_ you’ve been looking for!” she added suggestively, her accent weirdly beginning to sound less characteristic of the region and somehow hitting a bit closer to home.

Georgeturned with curiosity towards the source of the voice, his eyes eventually locking with the bird he assumed had spoken. She was strangely and startlingly familiar, he found. Recognizable in a way he almost couldn’t begin to place. After staring at her nearly a moment too long, the realization unfolded almost instantaneously. Immediately, he felt ashamed he hadn’t been able to make such a connection at a rational speed. The hair, the lips, the face, everything down to the very twinkle in her eye was strangely akin to— But it _couldn’t_ be… George found himself gaping dumbly in her direction. She _wasn’t_ here… She _wouldn’t_ be _here_ in… Where were they again? -- _New Jersey_ … _would_ she? No… she _couldn’t_ be. But it _was_ … It _had_ to be her. It _was_ … George swallowed hard… _Pattie_!! _Pattie Boyd_ … But _how_?

Ringo crossed into his line of vision right then disrupting it completely. A transitory scowl of fleeting irritation crossed the lead guitarist’s face at the inconvenience of the drummer’s intrusion.

Ringo didn’t seem to notice. “George, what is it?” he questioned urgently, a look of accompanying unmistakable wonder concealed within his blue eyes, “Why’d y’stop walking?”

For a brief moment, George was overcome by a nasty and overwhelming urge of wanting to brutally shove him out of the way so he could gain a better look at the bird who may or may not be Pattie. Before he had the chance to readily act upon it, however, it wore off leaving behind a bit of confusion and increased wooziness in its wake. George gave his head a clarifying shake, staggering dizzily as a result…

“George?” Ringo was staring at him more intently now, concern beginning to filter into his eyes. “All right, love?”

“I…” the lead guitarist allowed his voice to trail off as he attempted to, once more, seek out the mysterious bird responsible for the muddled mayhem building up within his brain. Wide-eyed, he found that she was nowhere to be seen. Had he imagined her?

“Geo, what is it?” Ringo urgently asked, struggling with increased determination to follow his gaze.

“Nothing…” George turned back to him, forcing a grin, “‘S’nothing, Rings…” _Just a bit barmy, it seems_ … Had he been hallucinating? He’d never hallucinated a day in his life but that bird… Pattie… She’d been right in front of him, plain as day!

“Well, let’s get you in. Yer starting to look a bit peaked… Won’t ‘ave any more Beatles fainting on me own watch.”

George hesitated slightly, allowing the words to process within his tired brain before managing a nod. At Ringo’s beckoning, he made his way down the remainder of the designated path in pursuit of the looming entrance of the airport entrance. He eagerly anticipated the quiet that would drop upon them the minute he entered through its double doors. Perhaps he’d be able to think better. Perhaps, he’d lose sight of that haunting daydream that had somehow found its way into his mental space… Whatever the results would be, the moment couldn’t come soon enough. He was worn out and even a bit dizzy…

The air-conditioned environment they were ushered into was pure ecstasy in comparison to the building heat outside. Unfortunately, not one of them was able to enjoy it in its entirety as they were abruptly introduced to the unanticipated gaggle of press that was deviously waiting just inside the doorway for their arrival. Almost immediately, they were swarmed. Pictures were taken; cameras and microphones were shoved repeatedly at their faces, questions asked… Ringo found himself actually wishing he was still outside… Though it had been excessively hot and overly rowdy… at least there’d been room enough to breathe.

“What is your first impression of New Jersey?”

“Are you excited to be here?”

“Explain to us, in a few words if you will, how it is that this particular venue differs from any other that you’ve been to within this country?”

Ringo couldn’t keep a frown off his face. There were so many people all around them… so many heads… most of which much taller than his. None of which familiar. Ringo panicked slightly, realizing suddenly that he’d somehow managed to get him and George separated from the others. He’d lost sight of John and Paul and neither Eppy nor Mal were anywhere to be seen. As usual, when things started to deteriorate, they deteriorated much too quickly. Reporters continued to approach him and George at all angles. The poor lead guitarist was growing uncomfortable and beginning to shrink away from all the unwanted attention. Ringo felt sorry for him.

“All right, love?” he worriedly asked his youngest mate when he had a moment to do so.

“You’ve lost our way, ‘aven’t ye’?” George accused him in place of answering. He stopped walking suddenly and watched as the drummer turned repeatedly about himself in aimless circles.

“Who wouldn’t lose their way in this place?” Ringo came to his own defense, “Turns out y’need a bloody compass to find yer way about ‘ere.”

“Ringo!! Geo!! This way!!”

Both the drummer and lead guitarist turned, suddenly catching sight of Paul beckoning frantically in their direction. At some point, he’d surpassed them in the order that they’d exited the limo. Ringo emitted a sigh of relief and started towards him after taking the time to make sure that George was directly behind him.

“Where’s John?” he asked.

Paul started to shake his head in uncertainty and was about to speak up on the detail when just as suddenly, an indistinguishably vague commotion broke out somewhere ahead of them in the surrounding mob. Various cries of what emulated shock followed immediate suit and then fear-filled clamors filled their eardrums.

Paul and Ringo froze and turned to look each other, “What the--”

“Beatle down!!” someone screamed.

“Holy hell, it’s John Lennon!!”


	25. Carry That Weight

‘ _John_ …’ Ringo mused inwardly, the name just managing to penetrate the building thoughts within his head. ‘ _John… John… Johnny… John… Lennon…_ ’It dawned on him suddenly,‘ _Wait_ … _John Lennon…?? Beatle John? …Their John_??’ He nearly slapped himself, ‘… _Jesus Christ, Ringo, how many John Lennons do ye’ know_?’ Ringo turned finally at the resulting upheaval and followed Paul just as he took off in the direction of the broadcast. They broke through a particular crowd of people and surely enough right in front of them was the aforementioned Beatle lying face down on the building’s linoleum floor. “John!!”

From that moment on, the steadily escalating chaos surrounding them faded into the background, resulting fear nearly bringing it all to a complete mute. John. Johnny fell and Mal was nowhere to be seen… Where was Mal? Hadn’t Mal been with him? None of this made remote sense. And Ringo suddenly had an overwhelming compulsion to tend to the problem himself in the absence of anyone helpful. Before he fully gained awareness of what he was doing, he was beside the unconscious Beatle in an instant, frantically calling his name and shaking him with an amount of vigor he almost didn’t think himself capable of.

“Give him room, fer chrissakes!!” Paul was shouting at the people that had moved in for a closer look. His supposed polite label had shed for the time being; no trace of it to be found at the onset of the impending situation. If not for the circumstances behind it, Ringo would’ve openly shown just how proud he was.

Dropping beside John himself, Paul was able to help Ringo get him onto his back with the little bit of space that they had to work with. “Mal!! Where’s Mal!!” he was yelling now.

“Mal…” Ringo found himself echoing, “Mal!!” His voice rose clear above the turmoil-enclosed atmosphere like an unnatural siren of sorts.

“John, c’mon, love… _Answer_ me…” Paul pleaded, tapping the unconscious Beatle’s face ever so lightly. There was a slight groan from the guitarist followed by a fluttering of eyes. “He’s coming ‘round!” the bassist breathed out in relief.

Taking a look into the hazel orbs momentarily basked in skepticism and disbelief, Ringo found he was graced with what might as well have been a front row seat to his mate’s thoughts. ‘ _How many bloody close calls would they be able to take before luck stopped being a factor?_ ' the bass player was more or less thinking. Ringo wasn’t a mind reader but the inquiry was plain as day.

Just as suddenly, Mal pushed through the wall of surrounding people, Eppy behind him, twin looks of fear enveloping both their faces. “What’s happened? Where’s John?” Eppy was the first to demand. The latter question went verbally unanswered as his eyes managed to find their own solution to it.

“What’s happened _now_?” Mal asked, repeating the first of Eppy’s two questions. He sounded tired as though he’d just gotten through the battle of his life to get to them.

“He fainted!” Paul relayed quickly, “But I think he’s coming ‘round now…”

“He’s coming around?” several people began to echo repeatedly. It was then when Paul and Ringo remembered that they weren’t alone in their endeavors but under the company of several helpless spectators in the form of the lovely press breathing down their backsides. Neither was enthused with the rediscovery.

“He’s coming around!!” The collection of words traveled throughout the surrounding crowd like a series of ripples on a lake. “Can we talk to him? Can someone tell us what’s going on? If you could take a moment—”

Mal felt the muscles in his jaw tense. “Now’s not the time!” he bellowed, impatiently pushing silence on everyone. The stunned, resulting state of shock lasted only moments before all clamor escalated once more, this time with even more perseverance; a feat the Beatles didn’t think possible.

Mal was getting irritated.

All at once, an overabundance of security kicked into high gear as a swarm of additional policemen and guards filed into the room to help those struggling to perform their jobs. Orders were shouted out and slowly the reluctant press were corralled to another room at the command of regulation. Few went willingly, resulting in an even noisier uproar than what was already deafeningly present.

“Blimey, ‘e’s shivering like mad!” Ringo murmured apprehensively, his attention never leaving John’s form even in the all the stirred up commotion.

Mal nodded, his eyes glazed with concern. “You all right, Johnny?” he asked, allowing himself finally to approach the fallen Beatle. The young, listless rhythm guitarist was shaking— chills that were utterly nonexistent what seemed like mere seconds ago, intensifying rapidly in progression as they ravaged his body. The road manager knelt down beside him next to Paul and placed a hand to his forehead. Moderate heat, as had been the case for most of the day, rose to greet the backside of his hand. Mal fought back an impulse to let out an automatic sigh of relief as his temperature seemed to be right where it had been last he checked. Hot but, no hotter. And though Lennon didn’t seem to be any warmer than he had been at any point of the day; he was _still_ rather feverish— consequently _still_ a cause for alarm. And judging by the amount of chills he was suddenly stricken with, it didn’t seem his temperature had any immediate intentions of dropping. More likely, it was probably on the rise as chills would often get around to unveiling. This could mean a couple of things. Either the fever-reducing medications were no longer working or the illness was simply taking a turn for the worse. Either way, it wasn’t right and Mal wanted answers now more than ever— from the hospital and if possible from the illness itself. “Ye’ all right?” the road manager went on to ask again as the woozy Beatle ultimately moved his sluggish gaze towards him.

“Why’s everyone shouting?” John mumbled. He made an effort to lift his head off the floor only to fail miserably as Paul forcefully settled a firm hand against his chest abruptly ending any progress.

“Easy, John!” the bassist barked, not unkindly, “Y’just fainted!” he then added under his breath, “ _Again_.”

John blinked reactively and groaned yet again, shutting his eyes momentarily. He looked even more knackered than even moments ago.

“Are you all right, Lennon?” Mal persisted, determined to get some sort of direct response from him even if it killed him.

Opening his eyes again and lifting his imprecise gaze to him, John managed a feeble, nearly nonexistent nod in his direction.

“Just sit tight and allow it to wear off,” Mal stated, “It’s never pleasant coming out of a fainting spell… especially considering that ye’ came out of one not too long ago.”

“I think he’s all right,” Brian verified, trying his best to have some sort of influence on the outcome of the incident.

Mal wasn’t taking any unnecessary chances. These fainting episodes were taking place much too lavishly and too closely together at that. “Let’s get him to the dressing room,” he insisted, “Where’s Geo?”

Geo… _Right_!! Ringo opened his mouth about to portray forth that he’d shamefully lost track of him in all the lunacy when just as suddenly, the lead guitarist conveniently eased out of the woodwork, Beatles head of security, Ira right behind him. He looked worn out and even a little battered as though the press, prior to their untimely exit, had just tried to make a feast of him.

Ira moved to talk to Eppy and Mal while Paul tuned into George’s presence. “George!! Ye’ all right?” he hurriedly crossed the scene towards him and proceeded to brush down his disheveled hair and clothing, “Where’d y’go?”

“I got left behind and caught up in all the madness _as a matter of fact_!” the lead guitarist responded irritably pushing him away, his words coming out slightly breathless all the while, “John… how is he? What happened?”

“See fer yourself,” Paul stepped aside so George could take a gander.

Harrison’s eyes widened as he took notice of Mal and Ira helping to get Lennon to his feet. “What ‘appened to him?” he demanded weakly.

“Passed out,” Ringo bluntly murmured, his words quavering more than he’d intended.

“ _Again_?!” George whispered in practical shock.

Paul nodded solemnly. “Fucking madness. All of it. But let me tell ye’. If Eppy and Mal _think_ they’re going to keep putting these occurrences on hold fer the greater benefit of the public, they’ve got another think coming.”

George nodded just to give a response but his mind was elsewhere. _What did John have_? _What did he have_?

Brian, Mal, and Ira were still lost in some sort of grave discussion while an isolated John stood off to the side looking physically sick over everything that had just taken place. Paul strode up towards him cautiously at first but then with more purpose, “How’re ye’ feeling, mate?”

“‘M’tired…” John murmured, lifting his gaze from the floor to his mate, “I’m a burden, y’know.”

Paul narrowed his eyes at the unanticipated origination of his best mate’s forthright and disparaging words, “No one’s said that, Johnny… have they?”

“Not in so many words… but it’s true.” John mumbled, his eyes seemingly staring through Paul.

“No, it’s not!” Paul countered, his voice taking on an escalating tremor for reasons he couldn’t quite comprehend. Perhaps it had to do with the fact that he absolutely _hated_ to hear John put himself down as he often would and had been doing more and more frequently.

“But I am… Been a burden me whole life… It’s why me mum didn’t want me, y’know.” The rhythm guitarist’s eyes fixed themselves on Paul’s finally and the bassist caught the presence of tears in his red-rimmed eyes.

John sniffled, rapidly blinking them away and just as quickly his raw emotional display was shut off, that maddening characteristic façade of his assuming its rightful place. Though Paul had always been able to see through such guises, it would often require some work, even for him. But this time around in as little as a single glance, he found he could see right through this particularly poorly-crafted one. See right through to those conflicting emotions stirring up turmoil within his brain, made more prominent by whatever illness was affecting him. John was miserable. And when John was miserable, John would often let his darkest thoughts run away with him. Most recently, his darkest thoughts hadn’t entirely been rational. And it worried Paul just as much as the illness itself did.

“We’ll discuss it later,” Eppy concluded, wrapping up whatever conversation had been taken place between him, Mal, and Ira, “Let’s go.”

Mal nodded in stoic agreement and began to usher everyone forward. One by one, the Beatles moved on, Paul and Ringo pausing to shoot each other nervous glances. Ringo wondered if Paul was thinking similar thoughts as he was by this point. For the bassist’s sake, he hoped not. His mind had taken a particularly gloomy somewhat irreversible turn. With a heavy sigh, he turned away and plodded off after Mal who was leading the way with John held firmly by his side.

The press had thinned out dramatically by this point due to extensive intervening of security. The few left over, ruthlessly and unashamedly continued their endless battle to get at them. Able to better handle a smaller quantity of such a mob, leftover security had no problem stepping in to keep the pesky nuisances at bay and off their backs. Watching the scene as he walked on, Ringo found himself wondering when exactly desperation, for these people, had begun to supersede dignity. A few even went as far as to get right into their faces desperate to overcome and weasel their way around the ignorance the Beatles were otherwise tossing their way. Others literally attempted to section one or two them off at a time from the remainder of their band. It was always John they were going after. Knackered, sick, feverish, vulnerable John Lennon… Lennon with all the stories. The holder of all the most recent, newsworthy blunders. But Mal had a firm grip on him to each their immediate dismay. And a threat for anyone who dared try to get in the way.

Eventually, they escaped to a strictly exclusive portion of the building and were all able to relax slightly as the chaos disappeared into the background. Still, no one spoke. It was almost as if they were afraid to disrupt the silence they’d been craving for what seemed like hours on end. Or maybe they were stuck in a bit of perpetual shock from the recent happenings. The latter was more like it, Ringo had readily concluded. Paul’s face, having initially been shattered at the earlier sight of John on the floor at the mercy of yet another bout of sudden unconsciousness currently mirrored nothing but overbearing concern. George’s face though flushed considerably, had since increased in pallor; a phenomenon that could either verify extreme trepidation or the presence of illness slowly working its way through his body. Perhaps it was both. John’s face was most frightening of all. For the most part, it resembled a complete pale and blank slate. Zero emotion ran through it. Zero emotion claimed his vacant eyes. He looked every bit the zombie status that Ringo had earlier felt obligated to compare him with.

Eppy tried to start a conversation just to shake the remaining grips of disaster from the air, but he didn’t get very far. No one responded. No one felt up to talking.

“Here’s the dressing room,” he murmured after a while. Reaching into his pocket for the key, he hastily inserted it into the lock and gave it a twist to unlock it. As he moved to pull it open, Mal jumped to the head of the group to give the inside of the room a quick scan with his eyes. “All set,” he announced, proceeding to enter first.

Paul followed next, and then George. George who literally seemed weighed down by a growing urge to sleep, poor thing. John entered behind George. He was shaking like a leaf, his chills having abated over the past several minutes, suddenly back with a vengeance.

“Let’s get you to a seat…” Eppy sighed, proceeding to direct John’s attention towards a nearby loveseat located near a collection of couches. “Sit,” he ordered. He turned to George, “You too, Harrison. Can’t ‘ave you passing out, as well.”

George nodded, emitting a hoarse sounding cough, and sat on a couch already claimed by Ringo.

Driven by complete exhaustion, John obediently followed Harrison’s lead and sank into a seat, himself. His eyes, laden with exhaustion, fell closed instantly. Paul took a seat beside him to which the violently trembling guitarist failed to even acknowledge. “John, love… Ye’ sure yer feeling up to this press conference?” he found himself sympathetically asking.

Eppy’s eyes narrowed on him in an instant, “As much as I hate to say it, he doesn’t have much of a choice, Paul…” he reluctantly intervened, “None of you do. When I first agreed to this press conference, the main plea was for you all to be there! That’s what was paid for.”

“Look at him!” Paul threw back, “Look at George! I just don’t think we can afford to wait until after—”

“There _will_ time to figure things out after the fact, _believe_ me,” Eppy stubbornly insisted, “We’re handling it as I speak.”

‘ _Handling it how_?’ Paul started to argue but, Eppy interjected, “Times diminishing!” he announced to the band as a whole, clapping loudly to capture their attention, “We’ve got some urgent preparations to get through! Let’s get moving!! The sooner we get through all of this, the better for John and George.”

Paul scowled at this but said nothing more to contradict the persistent arm of the law laid down by Eppy.

“Where’s our change of clothes?” Ringo asked, desperate for a lighter change of topic.

Mal pointed to the back of a nearby chair where he’d not too long ago draped the items of clothing Eppy had chosen for this particular publicity event. “There,” he informed him, “They’ve been properly tagged so that way you’ll know which belongs to whom.”

“ _Brilliant_.” Paul mumbled, his voice heavily laced with sarcasm.

Mal glanced at his watch with a sudden sense of compulsion, apprehension beginning to reign down on him, “I have an important order of business to attend to,” he announced after a small moment of silence. He hurriedly turned to Eppy before anyone could comment on his words, “Brian, I think it would be best if you accompanied me.”

Eppy quickly nodded. “Right. Well, err… lead the way,” he whispered somewhat reluctantly. Following Mal’s lead, he paused to face their band just inside the dressing room door, “We shouldn’t be long,” he took the time to inform them, “And when Mal and I return, we expect that you’ll all be set for the conference, no ifs, ands, or buts.” With those strict words to live by, he let himself out into the hall behind Mal, failing to take into consideration the air of mystery they’d left behind. The importance and magnitude of the task lying directly ahead trumped everything and anything.

Neither manager found the need to converse as they made their way about the place in search of the nearest pay phone. Both had entirely too much plaguing their minds. Both felt much too compressed by the weight of it all.

Mal, for one, couldn’t stop replaying the entire unraveling mess within the confines of his mind. The entire past day and a half had been like a suspense-filled movie. One would watch nerve-wracking scene after nerve-wracking scene pan out, but one had no control over what had happened or what was destined to happen. The past and future as a result were set in stone and there was zero room for manipulation. Worse, there was no way to turn off the movie and to stop the inevitable from taking place. One could play the waiting game, as he himself had been doing thus far; claim the roll of Sherlock Holmes and gradually uncover detail among detail along the way. One could simply turn a blind eye as a way of muddling through incident after incident. One could hide willingly behind false smiles and laughs or in contrast, resort to unexplained anger or sadness at yielded ‘end’ results. There were over a million ways of coping with and trying to make sense of things. Mal had been coping for too long now. If he didn’t find a way to gather some answers soon, the outcome of this ‘movie’ certainly would not be good. He was almost certain of it.

Mal specifically remembered John’s caretaker freely informing him that he’d be in contact with any news, good or bad. Several hours later, the road manager still had yet to hear anything on the escalating subject. It was possible that the hospital hadn’t yet reached a conclusion, but all the same, this prolonged waiting game wasn’t helping in the least bit to slow down the severity of things. Thankfully and luckily enough, the hospital had left him with a contact number complete with instructions permitting him or any legal stand-in to contact the hospital should any problems arise or if any related questions or comments on John’s behalf should surface. It was as good a time as any to take the official ‘leap of faith’ and receive the bit of information that would either set his mind at ease or shatter the world of everyone about him. It was as good an excuse as any to find out what the bloody hell was wrong with John.

The search for a pay phone ended quickly as one of the conveniently-placed devices posted on a long stretch of brick wall among many others came into view. Any hesitation was quickly exceeded by determination as Mal hastily moved to remove the phone from its holder, cradling it professionally between his shoulder and ear. Making minimal eye contact with Brian, he mechanically removed a piece of paper from his pocket and glancing occasionally at it, went on to dial the number he’d been given. Soon, he was waiting with as much patience as he could muster for anyone to pick up.

Following several frustrating transfers courtesy of hospital personnel, he was finally directed to the correct line of intended contact. “Hello?” someone briskly spoke into the phone line’s other end.

“Is this Dr. Bradford?” Mal carefully and politely inquired into the receiver.

“Yes. Speaking?”

“This is Mal Evans calling on behalf of a patient that was left in your care most recently. John Lennon?”

“Ah yes. Mr. Lennon,” Dr. Bradford verified, “I was just about to contact your point of destination, believe it or not. It’s convenient that you’ve chosen to call instead. Allow me to pull his chart… It’ll be just a moment.”

“Not a problem,” Mal responded automatically.

How is our patient doing?” Dr. Bradford casually asked. There was the distinct sound of papers rustling as he made the effort to seek out John’s medical chart.

Mal heaved a sigh. “Poorly, I’m afraid. He’s been passing out quite a bit— at the drop of a hat, really… And his temperature’s been on the rise all day. He can’t keep a thing down and he seems to be having a hard time with recollections that would otherwise come natural to him…” More rustling papers filled his ears and Mal wondered whether or not the doctor was listening any longer. Regardless, he kept on talking. Silence was the enemy. Silence allowed for the unsettling to take up residence within one’s mind. “Sometimes he doesn’t know reality from fantasy…” he went on, “And… more recently… he… he’s had a seizure…”

“ _Seizure_?” the doctor questioned, alarm claiming his voice.

“Yes.”

Dr. Bradford paused a moment, “I was afraid things would transpire to this point.”

“What do you mean?” Mal asked.

“Here it is,” the doctor revealed finally, having located John’s medical chart.

“Well?” Mal prodded urgently and expectantly, unable to keep his growing impatience at bay any longer, “What kind of an outcome are we looking at here?”

Dr. Bradford hesitated temporarily. The mood on his end of the line seemed to change entirely. “I’m not sure how to tell you this, Mr. Evans,” he stated after a while, his tone achieving sudden graveness.

Mal couldn’t keep his face from responsively falling, “What do you mean? What is it?”

“Radiology has confirmed some serious swelling of the membrane surrounding his brain and spinal cord due to some form of bacteria— an inflammatory infection of sorts. I’m still waiting on confirmation from the pathology lab for what type of bacteria we’re dealing with. He might be in need of a spinal tap to further verify all uncertainties. Judging by the way that things seem to be leaning, if he’s not under medical care soon, from what I know of such conditions, the consequences could be dire.”

Mal frowned, nervously twisting the phone cord around his callused fingertips, “What do you suppose he’s got?”

“We’re not entirely sure, Mr. Evans…” Dr. Bradford responded tentatively, “But the traits we’ve been able to pick up on, thus far, are reminiscent to a recently surfacing illness of a potentially dangerous caliber. If it is what we suspect it to be, he would need to be hospitalized! And those of you who’ve been in prolonged contact with him would just as well, need to be tested and given a vigorous dose of antibiotics for safety’s sake.”

“Christ, you speak as though he’s got the plague!!” Mal exclaimed.

“I can assure you that he doesn’t,” Dr. Bradford slowly responded, “Of that much we’re certain.”

“Well, could you give me an estimate then of what you think it might be? I’m not a fan of being left in the dark over such a serious matter. Are you or aren’t you aware that you’re dealing with a _Beatle_?!” Mal couldn’t seem to keep his voice from climbing in all his growing anxieties.

“Yes, we are fully aware that it’s John Lennon whose case we’re handling, but I’m afraid that until I hear from pathology, I can’t tell you much more,” the doctor responded calmly.

“Can’t you at least meet me a quarter of the way?” Mal pleaded, “Could this _illness_ potentially take his life?”

“I’ve given you all that I can for the time being. Just consider getting him to the nearest hospital when you can,” the doctor steadily affirmed after a moment’s pause, “Believe me when I tell you that this has all the potential in the world to become a medical emergency! Even if our suspicions are wrong, I’d rather you be safe than sorry. There’s a major one not too far from the area you’re in. One of New Jersey’s finest. Please consider having John examined there.”

“Of-of course!” Shaking now, Mal sealed the vow and hung up the phone. Rigid as a board, he turned to face Brian, the words he was in need of relaying, failing to form on his seemingly incompetent tongue.

“Mal!” Brian found himself gasping in surfacing worry, “What is it? Y’look as though you’ve seen a bloody ghost!”

Mal shook his head, swallowing back strong feelings of anxiety. “As you know, I just spoke with John’s hospital caretaker…” he revealed finally, “…The one that looked after him during his observation.” His voice was barely audible as he spoke.

“And?” Eppy prodded urgently, “Is John all right?”

“They don’t think so. They recommend that he’s admitted to a hospital…” Mal explained monotonously, “They think that whatever it is he’s got has serious potential to do him harm and anyone who’s…”

“My _goodness_!” Eppy interrupted with a gasp, his eyes widening like saucers in his head, “And just what do they suppose is serious about all of it?”

“Well, they don’t know exactly…”

“So all this on some whim, then?” Eppy challenged, the concern slipping from his tone, replacing itself with slight frustration, “When are they pushing this…?”

“The sooner, the better. _Now_ even if we could.”

“But the conference is in less than twenty minutes!!” Brian exclaimed fearfully.

“Doctor’s orders, not mine…” Mal tried to reason.

“I simply can’t allow for anything out of the ordinary to take place until after the conference, at least. I’ll see what I can arrange for after the fact.”

“We might want to see about canceling tonight’s show,” Mal wisely suggested though not without reluctance, “It’s no doubt that John’s too sick and if he’s _this_ sick, it wouldn’t make sense to—”

“One step at a time, Mal… _Please_ ,” Brian nervously interrupted, “Now do me a favor and don’t speak a word about this to John. I want him in the best frame of mind possible for the upcoming conference. The others too. They’ve got a lot of ground to cover.”

“ _Fine_!” Mal responded curtly, “But just so you’re aware, this is a potential serious matter! Much more serious than any publicity event could _ever_ be. It’s your call. Do nothing and this escalates, I’m calling the paramedics regardless and ending this bloody madness. Money can always be replaced. Let me know when you figure out how to replace a life.”

Leaving behind those sharp words to mull over, Mal walked away leaving behind a startled and frazzled Brian with a very important decision to make weighing heavily on his shoulders.


	26. No Reply

Supplementary finishing touches were applied in what seemed like a record amount of time and additional flu meds were supplied for George whose condition seemed to be on its own road to deterioration in a fit of coughs and wet sneezes. Seeing as there was no real evidence linking his illness to John’s, Epstein was still resolutely under the impression that simple prescription medication might remain of some help for him even if they were no longer an aid for John. While George had willingly embraced the meds with gratefulness, there was this inkling that had been weighing for hours now beneath the minds of Paul, Mal, and Ringo, that they weren’t having the necessary effect that they should be having by this point. Still, they fought to keep this growing knowledge to themselves not wishing to upset their youngest into believing that his symptoms would soon be destined to mirror the current ones that plagued their rhythm guitarist. _That_ would be a recipe for disaster.

Conversation, for the most part, had been kept to an abnormal limit as, even now, no one felt up to talking. Even Eppy had been strangely quiet and out of the way as the Beatles went about their business preparing themselves for a conference they truly wanted nothing to do with. Currently, they focused on the mental aspect of their preparation, each of them feeling that they could stand to unwind within the restless environment they had unwillingly created for themselves. Cigarette packs were since uprooted and a stash of pot was uncovered by Paul who’d managed to discreetly seek out a source within the building from an unnamed member of the Beatles’ entourage. George’s tired eyes had lit up at the sight of the green gateway to bliss. To him, it meant the possible annihilation of the nagging, intensifying ache tearing through this head. Ringo had looked ecstatic for the sake of pinning down and calming his spiraling nerves. The latter had been what had initially convinced Paul to partake in the mini transaction. His own tumultuous feelings had reached the point of no return a million times over and he wanted desperately to bring them back to earth.

Paul found himself rolling two joints; one large one for him and Ringo to share and a mini one for George, who’d been a bit demanding with his older mates about not wanting to be left out of the loop over a stupid illness. John didn’t want any. While Ringo had slipped into paternal role, sternly advising him against participating in his customary habits being as sick as he was, it was the rhythm guitarist’s willingness to comply that led Paul to confirm just how hellish he had to be feeling… not that it hadn’t entirely been obvious up until then.

“I think that I must be dying,” John had added somewhat jokingly in the face of all the shock he’d received on the subject.

“That’s not funny, Lennon!” Ringo had yelled with such intensity, George had nearly fallen from his seat.

“Truthfully, we’re all dying, y’know,” George had mumbled nonchalantly albeit darkly as he attempted to regain what had been left of his own composure.

“He’s right,” Lennon had responded with a wearied nod, “Jus’ some of us faster than others.”

“Cor blimey,” Ringo had grumbled, hating the change of subject with a passion, “Leave it to the bloody realists to put things into perspective.”

No one had spoken after that; the room, as was becoming the common theme, plunging into more brooding silence. Conversation having left off on such a dark subject, Paul found he could hardly handle this level of quietude. To the optimist in him, it wasn’t the least bit comforting. Lately, there had been nothing soothing about the silence, as meditative as it was supposed to be. It let in all fears imaginable that one could easily construct within the powerful tool that was the mind.

John on the other hand, found solace in his own corner of the loveseat he shared with George and promptly fell asleep; the increasing quickness of his meetings with unconsciousness still proving frightening in the opinions of his mates.

George took a hit from his own joint and listlessly looked over at the fellow guitarist following the gentle snores as they began to ease out from him, “Perhaps, it wasn’t so great exposing ‘im to all this smoke,” he murmured, ironically polluting the air himself as a cloud of smoke flowed out with his words. He coughed shortly after, his face contorting subsequently into a temporary fit of pain.

“Well, perhaps ‘s’not so great fer ye’ neither!” Ringo snapped, impulsively reaching over and ripping the joint from his mate’s protective hand. He abruptly put it out in the ashtray they’d all been sharing. “You’ve ‘ad enough. Way more than we should’ve allowed fer.”

George started to argue but Paul quickly intervened, “Ritchie’s right,” he stated simply only half tuned-in to his two mates. His attention remained diverted as he presently continued to eye John in a growing state of uncertainty. The fellow musician had slipped into the realm of sleep in what seemed like a record amount of seconds. Out cold like the snuffing out of a half-full moon at the onset of an unexpected midnight shower. Though he had witnessed this happening too many times recently, he wasn’t any less baffled by this. _Half-moon_. Paul thought the comparison was perfect. Lennon normally equipped with the strong presence of a full-moon, now remained at meager half-moon status. By the looks of it, he was well on his way to crescent moon status. Paul frowned at this. ‘ _What would come after that_?’ he dared to wonder, ‘ _No moon_?’ _No_ moon… no moon… No _John_ … Paul shuddered, mentally berating himself for thinking such deranged thoughts. “Shut up, Paul. Shut up. Just _shut up_!”

“Paul?”

Paul jumped at the sudden permeation of Ringo’s voice into his commanding thoughts. “What?” he asked dumbly.

“Are ye’ _really_ telling _yerself_ to shut up?” the look on the drummer’s face was a mixture of pure shock and slight amusement.

Paul was caught off guard. _Crap. He’d said that out loud_? _Bloody hell, what was in that pot_?? “No, I… was… jus’ letting me thoughts run away again…” he floundered for a lack of better response.

“ _With_ or _without_ ye’?” Ringo managed to joke, a small grin claiming his face.

“Huh?” the bassist questioned, his own embarrassment clouding his sense of understanding.

Ringo dropped his grin, his eyes hardening with concern as he took in Paul’s amplified confusion. “All right?” he asked.

Paul found a grin in place of the disappearance of his mate’s, “I’m fine, Ritch. Possibly insane but I’m fine.”

Ringo remained skeptical, but able to capture the earnestness in his friend’s eyes, he backed off.

Paul gradually returned his gaze back to John, realizing suddenly that his breathing seemed a bit shallower now as opposed to the deep even breaths that would typically otherwise accompany a Lennon-slumber. Convincing himself it was the marijuana making him paranoid as it sometimes would, he managed to convince himself that his eyes were more or less playing tricks on him. There was one fix for such impediments. More pot. Paul and Ringo, minus George at Ringo’s persistent scolding, relit the remainder of their burnt out joint.

“Don’t go getting too messed up now,” Brian scolded them from across the room where he’d sat listlessly for the past who knew how long in isolation, “It’s almost time to make an appearance. Perhaps you could take the bit of time left to finish anything that needs finishing.”

“I’ll tell ye’ what needs finishing,” Ringo commented with an idle yet over embellished grin, “The rest of that cheesecake sitting in the corner. So kind of the building staff to think of us, really.”

It was the marijuana no doubt, reawakening and amplifying his desire for edible satisfaction. Paul couldn’t help wanting to laugh.

“…Those finger sandwiches don’t look too bad, neither,” Ringo added.

Eppy rolled his eyes as the eldest Beatle rose dramatically from his seat and made a beeline for the assortment of treats. Paul rose and followed him, deciding he was developing a bit of a hankering himself.

The Beatles had been picking at the abundance of food over time that had been presented to them during Eppy and Mal’s random order of business that had led to their earlier disappearance. For the most part, only Paul and Ringo ate while John and George stared repulsively at them, neither of them seeming to have much appetite. Paul had already assumed beforehand that John wouldn’t have much desire for food. He’d hardly had an appetite for what seemed like days now, but now that George was actually beginning to refuse food, as well… _That_ , in itself, was an earth-shattering development… Pure unusual… Unnerving… Unsettling… and all the other _un_ -words that fit such criterion…

“Y’sure yer not hungry, Geo?” Paul currently demanded of the lead guitarist as he returned to reclaim his seat near him, “There’s still some cheesecake, y’know. And while it’s not New York style as y’seem to ‘ave acquired a taste fer, it’s _still_ cheesecake.” The bassist playfully outstretched a hand and waved a rich wedge of it beneath his mate’s nose trying to stir up some of those shut off senses within him. He’d been hoping that the bit of marijuana he’d smoked had been enough to revive at least part of the eminent gourmand residing within him.

“I _told_ ye’ I don’t want the bloody thing!” George snapped, brutally shoving the plate away, deflating Paul’s hopes in an instant. The cake slice upset by the younger musician’s brash reactions nearly toppled from its perch where it would’ve ended up permanently joining the lower half of Paul’s attire. So much for _that_ theory.

“Easy, mate!” the bass player protested, hurriedly backing off, “I don’t want to _wear_ the cake, I just wanted to know if ye’ felt up to eating! Y’could stand to eat something, y’know.”

“Why? Am I too _thin_ fer ye’?” George glared up at him in such a leering and unexpected way, Paul felt himself shrinking away from him altogether. He hadn’t failed to notice how unpredictably moody the lead guitarist had been steadily growing over the hours. It was practically a remake of John. At times, _he_ was practically a remake of John.

“While yer at it,” George continued disdainfully, “Anything else about me y’don’t like, yer _royal highness_? Me _eyebrows_ , perhaps? Me _smile_?”

Paul backed away even more, his body tensing into defensive mode as he gave his utmost attempt at trying to come to terms with whatever it was his mate was testily throwing his way, “Take it easy, would ye’? I’m not sure what it is yer even on about! I _never_ —”

“Don’t bother me…” George interrupted hoarsely, “I wrote that song fer a reason, thinking maybe y’gits could learn to take a bloody hint.”

Paul frowned but stalked away, nonetheless, deciding it was possibly best to fulfill the young guitarist’s desires for the time being. “Jus’ wanted to see if ye’ wanted some cake ‘s’all it was…” he muttered self-protectively as he distanced himself, “No reason to lose yer bloody knickers… _Christ_.” He uttered the last part inaudibly, not wishing to escalate a fight he had no intention of starting in the first place. _How had such a violent turn of conversation even manifested_? Of course, George could build a temper as well as the next bloke, but this was completely unheard of. Completely unlike the lead guitarist by all means. Paul heaved a heavy sigh. By the time this was all over, he might need to be examined himself… By a _psychiatrist_. In a padded room.

“Paul, what ‘appened?” Ringo inquired, catching his mate’s scowl as he passed him by. His mouth having been filled with cheesecake at the time, his words were hardly comprehensible.

“I must be mad or something,” Paul mumbled without so much a glance in his direction. He made his way over towards the food table and hastily shoved half a finger sandwich into his mouth.

Ringo followed him back over to the table, waiting patiently for a form of elucidation but none came.

After what seemed like a long while filled with agonizing, seemingly aimless ways to pass the time away, Eppy was able to take a step back, taking in his band as a whole, and deem them presentable for the public eye. Paul wondered vaguely what means of judgment he was choosing to go by and whether or not he was legally blind. John, awakened now by Ringo’s hand, looked like death itself barely warmed over and George was undeniably beginning to take on more and more of Lennon’s symptoms from the day before what with all his repetitive coughing, sneezing, and unexplained moodiness.

“I apologize for the additional ten minute wait,” Brian broadcasted briskly, following his quick visual examination, “It appears the press was in need of a bit of extra time for preparations of their own fancies.”

“We’re used to the wait, by now,” Paul muttered distractedly. He was eyeing Lennon again. The guitarist _still_ seemed to be breathing rather shallowly even in a conscious state.

“Yes, I suppose you are,” Eppy proclaimed with a small smile, “Ready now, boys?”

He received various responses, all of which entirely too low-key for his liking. He stood back and eyed them all skeptically, his arms crossed over his chest in pronounced disappointment. “Well, don’t look so excited,” he retorted.

George’s miserable sneeze was the only response he received even then.

Eppy shrugged dismissively, “Well, I suppose ye’ boys will feel differently once you get out there, slip into your element, and start talking. Up and at ‘em now.”

In no particular order, four unenthused Beatles rose from their seats and followed their adamant manager towards the door; Paul shaking his head all the while in profound, unshakeable disbelief. Somehow, by all means, this entire thing was wrong. Immoral. _Everything_ was wrong. _Still_ so _wrong_. Neither Lennon nor Harrison would be able to take much more even dealing with something that seemed as minor as a press conference. John barely had a thing left in the tank and George— What would it take to get Brian to see what was happening here??

“There’s nothing we can do,” Ringo softly stated, coming up behind Paul as he exited through the dressing room door, “Do yerself a favor and go with the flow fer now.”

“Easier said than done,” Paul sighed, his gaze combing the linoleum floor as he walked, “I’m bloody sick of people telling me how it has to be. It doesn’t _have_ to be any particular way but the way that’s right. I’ve this feeling…fer a while now. Doesn’t seem to be going away…”

“What is it?” Ringo asked, quickening his pace so that he was right beside his mate.

Paul shook his head. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Y’never do,” Ringo whined, momentarily pouting, “Y’know, Paul, it’ll only continue to eat at ye’ the more ye’ bottle it.”

“I don’t think ye’ understand, Ritch…” Paul dropped his voice several decibels, “It’s gonna eat at me no matter what.” With that said, the fellow musician quickened his own pace, leaving Ringo behind to contemplate his own thoughts as well as to attempt decipherment of his cryptic words.

A shadow conformed to Ringo’s eyes shutting out the perpetual sunshine within them, “I understand all right, Macca…” he inaudibly murmured darkly in his direction, “I understand more than y’know.”

“Let’s go, boys!” Eppy urged impatiently, hastily cutting into the drummer’s thoughts as he guided the band along with his overly animated hand gestures. The dull roar of conversing, antsy reporters could be heard as they neared the room staged for their conference.

“Sod off!” Ringo felt like shouting at him as he walked past. Of course, he held his emotions in check. Three short-tempered Beatles were more than enough to deal with. He must have done something right because Brian felt the need to pat him on the back.

“Atta boy, Ritchie!” he beamed at him.

Ringo flashed a halfhearted smile at him despite the murky, apprehension-fueled cloud growing beneath its surface. Somehow, he was a bundle of nerves at the onset of this particular publicity event; a nervous wreck in anticipation of everything that awaited them. But… all the same, it didn’t seem to be the conference itself though that set his mind askew. He could rightfully tell that much. What it was exactly, he wasn’t sure. Perhaps it was simply being aware of everything that could possibly go wrong during said conference that had the drummer swallowing back rather large, repeated lumps in his throat. If so, it was a right shame of him to waste time dwelling on such things as he’d been on and off all day. That was a pessimist’s job. Certainly, it wasn’t the job of an influentially, positive drummer. ‘ _We’ve been over this, Ritchie_!’ _Surely_ , he was being silly. _Daft_ … ‘ _That’s what you are, Ritch_ …’ Ringo tried to grin at his formed self-observation but his endeavors towards lightening his recently acquired way of thinking had failed. Mentally confirming the extent of his insanity wasn’t nearly enough to hold off the fretful feeling of unease that had been washing over him for a good portion of the day. It wasn’t enough to hold off whatever the hell was happening now. His heart rate was rising, his legs beginning to shake… He was on the verge of a panic attack it felt like. And he hadn’t the slightest inkling as to why…

Situated outside the door that gave way to the press conference, Mal’s eyes widened as he set them on the approaching drummer, “Ritch, ye’ all right?” he quickly inquired, worry instantly permeating his voice, “Ye’ look pale!”

Ringo managed a nod despite the fact that his entire body felt as though it was beginning to take on the consistency of jelly, “Jus’ a bout of nerves, I think,” he responded shakily.

Mal nodded supportively and with a pat on the back, ushered Ringo in through the door. “Deep breaths,” he called after him. He turned just as John approached, trailing lethargically behind his older mate. Mal immediately worried. “How’re ye’ doing, Johnny?” he asked.

John blinked blearily as Mal spoke up in front of him.

“John, ye’ all right?” the road manager demanded abruptly.

John blinked again, failing to respond. There was an echo. A really strange echo.

“John!”

John turned to him sluggishly.

“Okay?” Mal asked.

John managed a nod despite this nagging echo disrupting what was left of his permanently distorted hearing. It was all he could muster up the strength for as they were ushered into a rather small room filled with reporters, courtesy of a very anxious Eppy.

As they filed further into the room, Paul turned to look behind him at his best friend, “Let me know if this gets too overwhelming okay, Johnny?” he pleaded, “I can hurry it along. I know ye’ don’t feel well.”

 _Thud… thud… thud._ John groaned fuzzily. His head was bloody pounding excruciatingly with a vengeance. Like drums summoning forth his demise. Drums with a newly acquired resonance. Loud enough that it drowned out most everything with its accompanying increasing pressure.

“John?”

John frowned at him. _What was this echo all of a sudden_?

“John?” Paul repeated; the simple use of his name loaded with an impossible amount of concern. “Did you ‘ear me, love? You all right?”

 _There it is again_. John found himself giving his head a shake, trying to drive away the ghostly reverberation that had evidently taken reign over everything… It didn’t work. The echo was still there. And his head ached worse than ever now. It screamed for a pressure release but… he couldn’t seem to find the release valve, as evasive as it was. John nodded, nonetheless, even tried to smile but didn’t answer.

The smile, the façade, it was fake. Paul concluded knowingly. This was _all_ fake. It was pure madness.

The Beatles got into their seats and adjusted their microphones accordingly, three of them testing the sound quality and making proper height adjustments. John didn’t even lift a hand towards his mic. Feeling oddly more out of it than he’d been, he found slight interest in the wooden table… Wood could be so strange the way it was often filled with cracks and crevices and yet could somehow maintain its smooth appearance and feel. He’d best get a closer look… John lowered his head to the table and left it there… his heavily aching eyes closing on their own. _Thud… thud…thud_ … pounded his head.

“John, wake up!!” Paul hissed too suddenly from beside him.

The rhythm guitarist jolted to just in time to hear the beginning introduction to what was destined to take place. He didn’t mean to, but resting his head lazily into a propped up hand, he began to tune it all out, the constant thudding in his head seemingly taking control of everything…

“John? John?”

 _Mum_? John lifted his heavy gaze and his mother materialized in front of him, a worried look on her face as she held her microphone in place, eyes fixated on him. No wait…this wasn’t right… ‘ _Seeing things again, Lennon_?’ _Stu_? John shook his head and momentarily squeezed his eyes shut, willing the insanity to stop. When he reopened his eyes, the room had returned to normal. “John,” Paul was calling him now, “Are you all right?”

“Huh? Y-yeah…”

“Answer the reporter, then.”

John brought his eyes to the reporter who had supposedly spoken; the one who’d once resembled… his _mother_ was it? He found he strangely couldn’t remember. _What was he doing again_?

“John!” the reporter barked, managing to regain full command of his attention, “I asked you how you were feeling today.”

 _Right_. “I—” He frowned in confusion as the evasive question slipped from his mind once more. _What was it again_? “C-can you repeat that?” he quavered sheepishly.

“How are you feeling, John?” the woman repeated slowly and hesitantly.

John stared at her in bewilderment, her words this time having been fading in and out in the continually loud pounding of his head. _What_? He turned to Paul, “What did she ask?”

“She asked you how you were feeling,” Paul whispered back, “They all heard about New York.” His eyes narrowed in concern, “Are _you_ all right?”

John ignored Paul’s question and turned his attention back to the mob in front of them, “I might be under the weather but I’m still above ground. Gotta count fer something don’tcha think?” he responded, whilst struggling to embrace what was left of his well-known cheekiness. _What_? _Was that the best he could do_? Laughter filled the room, nonetheless. _Thud… thud… thud…_ his head continued to heavily pound…

The reporter smiled genuinely but gave off the affect that she knew more than what he was telling her. Was it _that_ blatant? John frowned. Had he become so transparent that _reporters_ could now see into him? “I admire your spirit, John. On that note of your health, I guess my next question to you would be whether or not you think you’ll be able to perform tonight.”

“I’ll be there with bells on, love,” John stated with just the slightest hint of a smirk, fearing internally that his façade would crack even more, “You just make sure you’re ready to rock and roll.” _Where were these words even coming from_? _His head_? _His mouth_? _Had he even spoken them_? The resulting laughter that rippled through the room hurt his head and ears. While it took everything in him to keep the Lennon-smirk in place and to refrain from whimpering, he was beginning to feel horribly detached.

“There’s that loveable personality we know and love,” someone dared to say. _Know and love_? _They didn’t know crap…_

John didn’t even bother with a witty remark, nor did he try to answer any more of the questions that were directed at him. By the looks of things, Paul seemed to have a good handle answering questions for the both of them and for what seemed like the first time in the history of first times, John didn’t feel up to trying to overshadow or outshine him with wit and charm…

Voices blended together after a while and a wave of dizziness mixed with nausea gripped the rhythm guitarist, threatening dangerously to remove his mask completely and flip his world upside down… Unreality gripped him and dark spots began to cloud his vision… _Please don’t pass out…please don’t pass out_ … The adopted mantra seemed to work and the spots disappeared, leaving an incredibly heavy feeling of illness and pain in its wake… But his head… _thud, thud, thud_ …

“All right, John?” Paul’s whispered voice permeated the woozy haze that plagued him. The bassist had noticed, after a while, the guitarist’s growing silence and needless to say, it sort of frightened him.

“I need some air, I think… Macca…” John murmured, his voice coming out feebler than Paul had ever heard, “…Don’t feel too great… really…”

Paul frowned, realizing that the guitarist was looking a bit green, “Head on out and get some. Take one of the others with you. I’ll get this wrapped up.”

John nodded and stood up, his face paling way more than it should have with the effort. Paul turned and summoned Ringo who’d been seated on the other side of John closest to the exit, “Go with ‘im,” he mouthed discreetly, “He’s not feeling well; needs some air…”

Ringo understood and trailed John to the exit, stopping temporarily to reveal to both Eppy and Mal the circumstances of their premature departure. Both looked instantly concerned but neither protested.

“I’ll be right there,” Mal told them, “Don’t do anything to attract attention to yourselves before I arrive.”

Ringo nodded and continued off in pursuit of John. He found the young guitarist tugging on the heavy doors to the back exit and straining visibly with the effort. To the side, a security guard stood as if debating in his mind whether or not to stop or help the determined guitarist. The sight pained Ringo, especially as he came to terms with the desperation in his friend’s face. John hated appearing and feeling weak and this just took the cake. “John, maybe we should wait for Mal, anyway,” Ringo told him, “You know how he feels about us going outside undisguised without body guards!”

“Why’d ye’ come then, Ritch?” John snapped, turning to face him as he gave the door one finally yank. It flew backwards finally and John stumbled back several feet in a daze before gravitating towards the fresh air the outdoors had to offer. The guitarist was shaking by the time he got outside and Ringo’s frown continued to lengthen as he wondered if it were from pain or the surfacing of his pesky chills which, as far as Ringo could see, had been ongoing all day, much worse than yesterday’s. John was going downhill fast. Ringo could undeniably see it. Paul could see it. He was sure that that George, Eppy, and Mal could see it. He had this overwhelming, foreboding feeling that before the night was up, there was a large chance that their band leader could be condemned to a hospital, even if it was due to Ringo’s own desire. The drummer had been threatening to call the paramedics since John’s initial first turn for the worse what seemed like days ago. The feeling to do so had recently become overbearing… Overwhelming…

There was the distinct and sudden sound of retching and Ringo glanced over catching his mate just as he doubled over; brutally expelling small amounts of liquids from his insides onto the pavement. Alarmed, the drummer rushed to his side. Not sure of what else to do, he found himself soothingly rubbing his younger mate’s back in calming circular motions. John heaved and heaved and heaved… each convulsion bringing up even less than the last… And by the fifth or so time, not even bile was escaping him… But still he painfully heaved and heaved, his entire body breaking out into cold sweats…

Ringo frowned as he took this all in… Lennon was still losing entirely too much in the way of fluids…

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, John lifted his upper body and fell back a short distance against the brick wall of the building behind him, his head practically slamming against it in all his strenuous exertion. His face no longer had that dreadful green tint to it but he was still dreadfully pale and haggard looking, even more so than before.

“There, that feel better, love?” Ringo questioned empathetically, his worried eyes taking in his mate’s worn-down appearance.

John shook his head, his eyes squeezed shut. “Hurts…” he mumbled semi-coherently.

“What hurts, love?”

There was a slight bit of hesitation before John responded; his eyes blinking back tears of exhaustion. “Everything…”

“Here let me clean ye’ up a bit…” Ringo fussed, his antics beginning to mirror the father that John had longed for. If he concentrated hard enough… he could even see his father… Really, he could… But how could that be? Wasn’t he dead? No wait… that was his mum… His father was…

“You all right?” Ringo was staring hard at him now.

“You look like… someone I know…” John mumbled disjointedly.

“Who?”

“I…” John blinked and gave his head a shake. He couldn’t see it anymore. “I don’t know…”

Ringo frowned and reached for a conveniently-placed handkerchief in his pocket and proceeded to wipe bile from John’s chin and eventually the sheen of sweat covering his entire face. Then, balling up the mess, he proceeded to toss it into a nearby trash can.

John’s entire body convulsed painfully and for a split fearful second Ringo thought he’d heave again. “Here, Johnny, let me…”

John waved him off, his body convulsing once again, “Jus’ hiccups…” he murmured tiredly. “It seems I’ve ‘ad too much t’drink… again…” He grinned animatedly at his own words but it failed to reach his tired and tormented eyes.

“Let’s get ye’ some water, then,” Ringo stated. He started towards the back doorway they’d earlier escaped from expecting John to follow but instead the worn out guitarist defiantly dropped to the squatting position where he stood.

“Aren’t ye’ coming?” Ringo asked, “Ye’ should come, Johnny. I’d rather not leave ye’ out here in the open by yerself.”

“I’m a big boy,” John responded dully, “Plus ‘m’sure the big bad security man will keep an eye open,” he muttered after the fact, select words crudely interrupted by the repeated, rather violent, possessive spasms tearing through his chest.

Ringo still looked doubtful but nodded, nonetheless, “Well, I’ll be back, then. There’s some water back in the dressing room.”

John didn’t respond as Ringo hurriedly slipped away.

By the time Ringo returned with a bottle of room temperature water, John was nearly asleep where he had left him. “I brought y’some water, John,” the drummer announced, making sure to rouse him from whatever stupor was waiting to claim him. From what he could readily observe, this wasn’t the greatest time or place to slip into oblivion.

John blinked indolently and turned to look at him.

“Water,” Ringo emphasized.

John hiccupped with such force, his head smashed brutally against the wall he’d found support in. “Jesus Christ, you all right?” Ringo asked. Under normal circumstances, he might have laughed but somehow he felt sorry for his mate. His _mate_. The tortured soul that had been to hell and back on too many occasions throughout his short life. The tortured soul that was John Lennon.

Not wishing to remain outside for too much longer, Ringo bent over to carefully help his mate to his feet before leading him over towards the safety of the closed back door in case there was a chance they’d have to make a run for it should any unruly fans make an unanticipated appearance. Unscrewing the cap himself, he quickly handed him the open bottle of water, “Drink,” he ordered, “Y’need it.”

John grinned fleetingly at him before obediently taking the bottle and sipping it mercifully and excessively. He did this several times, but nothing seemed capable of putting away the sporadic jolts ripping through his body.

Ringo looked worried. “Y’sure it’s jus’ a bout of hiccups? Yer not gonna ‘eave again, are ye’?”

John lethargically shook his head in spite of the sickening ache, further enhanced by all recent actions, beginning to take up space within it, “I’ll be all right…” he murmured dismissively.

“Y’sure, John?” Ringo asked, looking up at the younger Beatle.

John nodded, somehow managing a slight smile in his direction.

But the pain was still there, engraved into his form, ever present and aggravated by just the simplest action executed by the guitarist. He wasn’t fine. This wasn’t rocket science. Bloody fucking hell, it wasn’t rocket science…

“I need t’sit…” John murmured, his eyes clouding over ever so slightly. Still hiccupping occasionally, he slid to the ground outside the backdoor, seemingly without a care to be had. Ringo found himself glancing around frantically in fear that fans would pop out of the woodwork and sweep in on them like a satanic army of some sort. And here they were, a pint-sized drummer and an ailing rhythm guitarist very alone, quite defenseless, and at the mercy of… well… everything… They might as well be holding up a neon sign that called in all fans from all the cracks and crevices of New Jersey. They’d be mobbed in a matter of minutes… seconds even…

“Does that feel any better?” Ringo asked, turning back to John finally after forcing his fears to rest somewhat. The guitarist had his face in his hands and was rubbing frantically at it as though willing away all traces of pain. Feeling increasingly worried, Ringo took a seat beside the guitarist.

“Idunno… ‘M’so hot…” John practically whimpered after a while, a chill ravaging his body once again. Ringo took one look at his deeply flushed face and clamped his hand down on his forehead. Instant waves of fiery heat rose to greet him. This wasn’t good. John was burning up an insufferable amount and his chills, a known sign that his temperature was still climbing, had yet to subside. This wasn’t good at all…

The door opened behind them and John having settled most of his weight upon it, nearly fell backwards. “You guys all right?” Paul’s voice seemed to appear out of nowhere, “Mal wants us all checked into the hotel for some rest. Worried about John, no doubt. He’s even convinced Eppy to cancel the rest of the events till show time tonight.”

Ringo’s face was downcast as he turned to face Paul, “Johnny’s not doing so hot, Paul…” he whispered to him.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, he just vomited not too long ago… and he’s _really_ burning up!! I almost feel he needs to be in a hospital…”

Paul frowned, “I’m going to get Mal…”

“No one’s getting Mal…” John murmured weakly, forcing himself to his feet without the slightest bit of help. His hiccups had subsided somewhat by then, “I’ll be all right…”

Paul shook his head, gazing worriedly in John’s direction and then all about them in a fit of fear, “Come ‘ead, then, Johnny. We should really get you out of ‘ere before the fans show up. They already know something’s up. You walked out in the middle of a televised press conference.”

John dizzily nodded despite barely hearing Paul’s words and took a shaky step towards the door that the bassist distractedly still held open. _THUD, THUD, THUD_ screamed his head. …It was then when the relentless pain began to engulf his entire being to the point that he could hardly focus on nothing else. A bit of panic surfacing beneath all the haze that layered him, his dilapidated mind made its final attempt at seeking out any form of release. _THUD, THUD, THUD_ his head continued to pound defiantly into oblivion. There was none.

He was sinking into murkiness… Drowning. Dizziness and unreality joined forces, playing with what was left of his waning mentality. Waning… like the moon in the sky. His head swam… His entire body throbbed. John wondered vaguely if this was how Stu had felt before he went. He could see him now. Plain as day. Grinning maliciously in his direction. No wait. That wasn’t Stu… that was… _Mimi_? “Finally, you’ve gotten what’s coming to ye’, y’little twat!” she proclaimed in a voice that wasn’t hers. It sounded rather like Cyn’s… John shook his head— or at least thought he did. His wooziness increased. He needed air. Had he forgotten how to breathe? Instinct working overtime, the rhythm guitarist made one last effort with what energy remained to get in one more breath. He’d failed again. And Mimi/Cyn… whoever she was laughed. She laughed and laughed and laughed shrilly the sound of her cackle taking on a more maniacal aspect with each assertion of pleasure. John sank to his knees.

“Y’never should’ve been born,” a somewhat familiar voice asserted itself. The rhythm guitarist was able to gather enough of his rapidly fading vitality to turn his head ever so slightly towards its source. He wasn’t even sure if he was upright any longer. To his decreasing capacity of surprise, his younger Teddy Boy self glared back at him spitefully and arrogantly, “Julia’s said it on more than one occasion and so ‘as yer piss-poor excuse fer a father. Y’don’t realize it now, Lennon,” he sneered maliciously, “but yer about t’make the world a better place!” All at once, there was a sudden flash of blinding light… then… darkness. Distantly, a voice could just be heard dancing along the edge of nothingness. ‘ _La la, how the life goes on_ …’

“John!!” Ringo’s muffled voice managed to permeate the madness… But he was so far away now… in a different realm it seemed… an entirely different universe altogether… The pain was even beginning to fade…

Paul looked over just as John pitched forward, halfway in through the door. “John!!” he breathed, his voice barely coming out a whisper. Feelings of fear were menacing and overwhelming. With as many warning scares as John had given over the course of yesterday and today, this one seemed oddly final. This was one was critical… He just knew it.

“What happened?” Ringo asked, turning to gaze at Paul before dropping down to the guitarist’s side.

Paul didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer. This was all wrong. Everything in its entirety. He wasn’t even aware of even having moved but somehow he was right at John’s level, using his body to block the door from closing on him. Somehow he’d gotten right next to John and was calling him, tapping his face, pleading with him to wake the bloody, fuck up. The Beatle’s face was deathly pale, having paled progressively beneath flushed cheeks since the dawn of the day. How could he… how could _they_ not have seen it coming enough to stop it? This was all wrong… “Joohhn!!!!!” he gave his last shout his all. John didn’t flinch. Didn’t move an inch of his normally animated face. Wronger still. Why was this all so bloody wrong?

“John, John!!” Ringo was right beside him on the opposite side, elongating and elaborating on the bassist’s single-name mantra. Paul looked up at him, his heart heavy with fear. “Call the paramedics!! Get Eppy and Mal, _now_!! _He’s not breathing_!!”

Just like that, the half-moon the bassist had been desperate to cling on to had vanished.


	27. Cry Baby Cry

The funny thing about the inevitable was that it was undeniably one of the most resilient of concepts on earth. Like a train on a one-way track rushing full speed ahead at an unsuspecting victim, there was no direct way to stop it. One, if lucky, might be able to slow down its progress a bit and alter the outcome of intended impact accordingly. But chances were it wouldn’t be enough. It was _never_ enough. Life was funny like that. Funny in an unbelievable cruel and twisted way. And because of its sick sense of humor, three-quarters of a band that once stood tall were forced to watch in a state of catatonic shock as their fourth was taken away via ambulance to some strange and foreign hospital in some strange and foreign region of a country that was overall unfamiliar to them.

There was no gradual decrease in awareness for George Harrison as he somehow managed to take this all in. Nothing to properly precede the complete annulment of sharpness clouding his mental world of perception. Rather, he just shut down; senses and all— while all about him, surrounding chaos, turmoil, anxiety, panic, and fear rushed in like a scheming wave on the most battered of shores; washing away everything remotely sense-worthy in all its entirety. He was merely a grain of sand at the mercy of it all; hopelessly trapped beneath this suffocating and disorienting wave, continuously subject to an ongoing cycle of eroding undertow from which he would gradually wear away in merciless defeat. And all he could think of was the wrongness of it all. How _wrong_ John was for bringing about such mayhem. How wrong he was to quit. To give up. To stop breathing. How wrong the entire universe was as it scornfully spiraled counterclockwise with a blatant lack of control at the notorious hand of the inevitable. And there wasn’t a rewind button to be found. No do-overs. No way to wish away fate’s tainted touch. No room to play pretend. No hope of taking away the immense amount of pain that had taken the hearts of an apprehensive band, and shoved them brutally into captivity within a jail cell of doom and gloom.

Rain had begun to fall, reminiscent of the cheesiest of movies; light at first, before quickly growing heavy— like mini stones of death raining down from the angry heavens. The air had grown significantly colder too, as a well-timed fog rolled into the streets, shrouding everything and everyone in its sinister veil of sadness. George didn’t feel it, the cold. Didn’t even feel the rain as it drenched his clothes, soaked his hair, and seeped into every existing orifice of his body. The senses in charge of such sensations were gone astray. Mislaid. Vanquished. They were dead. _He_ was dead. Dead with a beating heart. Dead like how John had looked prior to when he’d been taken away by unfeeling robots draped in white. Dead like the faces of the aforementioned unfeeling robots better known as the paramedics. The unsympathetic paramedics that had stolen John into custody and left without so much a whispered word of comfort or solace. Leaving behind George in limbo. Leaving him wondering. Leaving him questioning John’s future… _his_ future… or lack thereof. _Never_ had George ever wished in his lifetime to be able to take a take a glance into the future. Never until _now_.

“George…”

The lead guitarist flinched at the sound of Ringo’s voice combined with his tentative touch to his upper arm but he didn’t move.

“Come ‘ead, mate…” the drummer went on to say, sounding desperate in his attempt to provoke a response from the lead guitarist.

George blinked in a bit of confusion, his mind still anywhere but in the here and now. He turned to Ringo finally, finding that his eyes were having a bit of trouble focusing. “What?” he mumbled numbly.

Ringo frowned following their stimulated eye contact, his eyes frantically looking over his battered, suffering mate as a whole, “Let’s get ye’ out of the rain, love. Look at ye’, yer _shivering_!”

“I am?” George lifted up both his hands to the front of his face and peered at them. They were quaking like mad. Why couldn’t he feel it? Shouldn’t he have noticed?

“Let’s go before y’get even sicker out ‘ere in all this dampness,” Ringo murmured, concern softening the edge to his voice. “The last thing we need, really.” Despite the dismal tone to his voice, his eyes remained bright with some kind of contradictory hope; the two orbs shining predominantly in the rain like twin suns of blue.

False hope, George would’ve automatically assumed as that was about all that was left within the deepest of his own soul. But it wasn’t. Ringo was clinging onto something positive like how a young deprived tot on Christmas Eve would cling to the hope that the following day would indeed bring miracles. George couldn’t understand how that was even possible. Then again, he had always been a bit more of a realist. He was like John in that sense. And while John’s hard life had shaped him unconditionally into the ‘pessimistic’ mindset he was known to wear like a second skin, George found he’d always been subject to his way of thought. For as long as he could remember, however far back that was. Changing his point of view now even to set his mind at ease, wouldn’t reverse what was already happening. “Too late fer me…” the lead guitarist finally mumbled exhaustedly, his dark brown eyes averting Ringo’s.

“Don’t be daft with that kind of talk,” Ringo admonished. His tone was gentle but his eyes, stern. Even then, the light within them somehow prevailed.

George flared in the face of the drummer’s scolding. “Didn’t y’ see a bloody _thing_ of what’s just ‘appened?” he countered heatedly, “John _wasn’t_ breathing. He _wasn’t_ breathing when they took ‘im away. _Y’can’t_ tell me it’s a good thing. And y’know what else isn’t a good thing while we’re on the subject?” the lead guitarist went on, his eyes flashing reproachfully, “Being too optimistic! Optimism leads to disappointment when everything flops.”

“But he _was_ breathing, Geo…” Ringo murmured weakly, his eyes dropping to the soggy ground in offense to his mate’s bullet-like words, “Hardly breathing but he was jus’ the same… They managed to revive that aspect of him jus’ before they took ‘im away.”

“Well, _I_ wouldn’t know a thing about it…” George snapped bitterly, “None of those gits in white bothered to fill me in. As usual, I’m left behind.”

“I only know because Brian told me…” Ringo softly replied, lifting his eyes back to George’s level, “I didn’t actually see fer meself. Mal wouldn’t let any of us anywhere near the scene.”

George shrugged, apathetic to Ringo’s words. “Well, Johnny’s breathing, then,” he mumbled, his voice filled with an implausible amount of sarcasm. “Great. He’s ‘alfway better already.” He sniffled miserably and sneezed into the rain, the mini droplets mixing in with the wet atmosphere. “Perhaps, there’s hope fer me after all.”

Ringo frowned, a flashback to yesterday plaguing his mind. He shuddered at how George vigorously seemed to be taking on the antics of their rhythm guitarist on his forged path of declination. While both were forever stuck in their pessimistic mindsets, the way they’d been as of late was bloody unbelievable. And not in a good way. And now John was… Ringo shook his head uneasily. “Let’s go in,” he quickly suggested as a form of disruption from his thought. _Let’s go in so we can plot our next move and see whether or not it’ll involve anymore unexpected hospitalizations_ … _How was that for optimism_? Jesus Christ. George was wrong about him. He wasn’t a bloody optimist. He was an impostor. On this particular day, they _all_ were.

Placing a hand on George’s shoulder, he guided him towards the building he and John had escaped from literally only moments ago. Moments before… Ringo shook his head. Jesus Christ it was unreal. Stopping momentarily in his tracks, the drummer shut his eyes as frightening images of John lying unconscious like a cadaver on the cold hard ground proceeded to wrack his brain. He’d have nightmares about it. He was certain of it. Giving his head a shake to clear it, he started on again in pursuit of the building that had once held his entire band as a whole.

Eppy was waiting in the doorway of the back entrance, eager to get them all out of the rain. John had been taken away and they had no business dwelling on the streets following the highpoint of such a stressful, anxiety-filled crisis. He looked relieved as Ringo and George drew nearer. “Hurry!” he ordered, shifting into worried fatherly-mode, “You’ll catch a chill!” He hastily began waving them both forward, “Where’s Paul?”

 _Paul_ … Ringo frowned. He’d been so worried about George’s wellbeing, he hadn’t even thought of Paul. He opened his mouth, “Uh…”

“Never mind. Get in!” Brian ordered of the drummer. He could just make out the bassist foolishly standing in the fog by the side of the road, staring. Staring at what, exactly? The manager couldn’t make heads or tails of it. Allowing the heavy-duty door to close on two of the three remaining Beatles, he took off into the rain at a quickened pace on track to the third one.

“Paul!” he called out desperately. “Paul!”

Paul didn’t react at the calling of his name. Didn’t even flinch. He was lost. Lost in a fog, lost in a haze. Lost in a daze. The day mares had already begun for him. Every time he dared to close his eyes, even just to blink, he’d see his best mate lying motionless as his dilapidated body was crudely lifted onto a stretcher, not one bit of fight left within it.

“Cor _blimey_ , Paul!” Eppy muttered breathlessly from somewhere in the background, his words to be ignored.

Paul couldn’t have responded even if he had wanted to. The melancholy was too strong. The nostalgia. The overwhelming want for things to fall back into place. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair how this had happened. John hadn’t asked for this. None of them had. John hadn’t asked for half the crap he’d been prematurely faced with throughout his life. And he’d had all the time in the world ahead of him to make it all better. To improve. To rise above it all. Was it all to end here? It wouldn’t be right. It wouldn’t be fair. Couldn’t the universe see? By taking away John, they’d be taking away an enormous part of him. An enormous part of everyone he was associated with. And a bassist would be left without the longtime mate that he absolutely unconditionally adored. The best kind of mate that he looked up to on many an occasion. One that was always _saying_ something. Always laughing, always smirking, always joking, always scowling, always frowning. _Always_ animated. Somehow all at the same time. Sure he was flawed. Sure he was jaded. But none of that ever really mattered. There was much more to him than that. Whenever Paul looked at him, he’d see the perfect blend of wit, sarcasm, cynicism, insecurity, humor, arrogance, bluntness, moodiness, passion, and a larger-than-life personality all of which helping to shape him into who he was.John Winston Lennon was… Paul’s other half. His big brother. His mentor. The one that made him feel a peculiar blend of wholesome, secure, inferior, and equal. Without him, well… he could hardly stand. Without him, the world might as well cease to exist.

It was crumbling now beneath him— the world… and Paul could feel it’s every defective crack and crevice as it proceeded to do so; brutally and abruptly disrupting the natural order of all things established by a hardworking Mother Nature. If he let it, the ground would eventually crumble away and he would fall into a black abyss of no return.

“Paul… Paul… _Paul!_ ”

The bassist turned at the fifth call of his name with a blatant lack of urgency. Brian, the manager who had stayed behind in place of Mal, now stood beside him, his eyes peering at him through the stubborn fog and rain. There was a genuine pain locked within them. Worry, anxiety, apprehension, but mostly pain. Pain and maybe self-loathing. Paul felt no pity. Brian shouldn’t be standing beside him chanting his name any more than he should’ve been on that ambulance with Mal, accompanying Lennon to hell. He owed Johnny that much for all the suffering he’d had to endure. Paul wasn’t one to hold grudges but if John didn’t come out of whatever the bloody hell this was in one piece, forgiveness would forever cease to be an option.

“Paul,” Eppy spoke again, sounding now as though he was coaxing a small child out of hiding, “Come ‘ead from the rain.”

“Hide our ‘eads from a bit of rain. England would be right proud,” Paul muttered monotonously, quoting John’s words from the day before. The day before… When they’d been naively off to the concert following Lennon’s delirious breakdown. Even that had been bliss compare to what had just taken place. Compared to what currently lay ahead. Everything going on at that very moment, made all yesterday’s happenings seem like afternoon tea.

“You’ll catch a chill!” Eppy stated counteractively. But in all that had transpired most recently, his voice failed to hold the persuasive quality it would naturally take on whenever he was choosing to embrace his domineering side.

Paul regarded him with a smirk, the cold expression unwavering even as water from his hair proceeded to drip into his eyes, near blinding him. “Oh, _now_ our wellbeing’s of top priority?” he sharply retorted, sarcasm amplifying his tone, “Why, Brian? Is it because tonight’s concert’s at stake?”

“I’ve canceled the concert.”

“Oh?” Paul arched an eyebrow in mock surprise, “ _Now_ the gloves come off. No choice, huh? And the tour?”

“In limbo until I hear of John’s condition.”

“Right,” Paul grunted, “Wouldn’t think that you’d ‘ave the nerve to make such a big leap.”

Eppy shook his head sadly, “I’m doing the best I can, Paul,” he sighed plaintively, “You _must_ understand that.”

“But look where it’s gotten us so far,” Paul callously spat, “John’s possibly fighting for his life and who knows what the bloody ‘ell will even come of George!”

Eppy dropped his head and nodded, “I know. None of this was supposed to happen. I—I _swear_ if anything happens to any of you boys, I’d… I’d never be able to live with myself…” He paused momentarily, allowing for the continuous sound of the rain to fill both their ears. Paul thought he heard a sob but he couldn’t be certain. “…I’ve… I’ve made such a mistake,” the manager went on after a while, “As it turns out, Mal was right. You can always replace money but… you can _never_ replace a life…” When he lifted his head once more, tears could be seen leaking from his eyes.

Paul softened in spite of his own emotional pain threatening to harden him all the more, “Well, there’s nothing we can do about it now…” he concluded somewhat dismissively.

Eppy sighed in defeat, “I don’t suppose there is, is there?”

“Moreover, there’s still hope,” the bassist pointed out, “And if I know John, he wouldn’t be in favor of us giving up just yet. He’s a natural born fighter.”

“You’d make a great manager, Paul, you know that?” Eppy solemnly acknowledged, allowing a hesitant waterlogged smile to grace his face, “The amount of times today that you’ve taking a stand against me shows a strong sense of leadership.”

Paul managed his first legitimate smile in what felt like ages. “It’s no wish of mine though, Brian.” Maybe he didn’t want to hold a grudge. It wasn’t like him after all. Grudges were for the self-centered. Grudges led to hate which in turn would destroy the purest of hearts. He took in a deep breath and forced himself to muster the rest of the words that were building on his tongue, “For the most part, yer doing just fine. We _all_ make mistakes, really. It’s what makes us human.”

Brian shook his head refusing to accept the bassist’s return praise, “It isn’t when someone willingly lends you a beneficial hand and you refuse it for your own selfish needs… That hardly qualifies as anything good,” he countered self-degradingly, “You mustn’t be so kind, Paul. I don’t entirely deserve it.”

“Again, there’s nothing that can be done about it, Eppy,” the bass player impatiently declared in response. His wits, nullified by the weight of the world, were beginning to reawaken now, diminishing the traces of insensitivity that had taken over his mind, body, and soul. Suddenly he was very aware of the wet and cold that surrounded him.

Eppy noticed the shivers beginning to take over his companion, “You’d better get inside before we have another ill Beatle to worry about,” he enforced insistently, “That’s the last thing we could stand to have.”

Paul nodded, his teeth beginning to chatter ferociously from the unyielding grip of the rain-soaked air, “Right.” He turned in his tracks and rapidly started back towards the shelter of the building, Eppy close behind him.

“We must get to the hospital ourselves,” the manager added offhandedly with a weak chuckle, divergent of his words, “As it turns out, those of us who were in any form of contact with John within the past twenty-four hours might need to undergo some testing and possible antibiotics. Of course, that depends on his official diagnosis.”

Paul turned to him in slight confusion-induced suspicion, “Where’d you hear that?” he asked. None of the paramedics had hardly glanced in the direction of another human being let alone gone into that much detail from what he’d been able to see from the distance he’d been kept at courtesy of Mal.

“Mal spoke earlier with John’s caretaker from the hospital back in New York,” Eppy casually remarked.

“What did they have to say?”

“Exactly what I’ve told you…” Brian responded, “… plus they gave a quick breakdown of John’s suspected illness…” He quickly breezed through the latter bit of information hoping there wasn’t enough for Paul to latch onto and question. He was beginning to regret mentioning the casual bit of information in the first place. Chances were he was only beginning to dig himself a hole. And with Paul being as perceptive as he was known to be, there was no pulling the wool over his eyes in any shape, way, or form.

As expected, Paul frowned, stopping suddenly in his tracks. “A quick breakdown of his…” he trailed off as a more commanding series of inquiries surfaced, “What does he have? He’s not _too_ sick is he?”

A shadow crossed Brian’s face as he dared to answer the bassist’s question. “Well, he’s not in the greatest state, Paul…” he gravely responded, regretting with increased magnitude, the turn of the conversation.

“He’s _dying_?!”

“I didn’t say that!”

“Well, yer not denying it!” Paul accused, his eyes wild with criticism.

“He’s… quite ill…” Eppy tiredly explained, “Gravely ill… potentially…”

 _Gravely_?! Paul faltered, slowing his mind to a steady halt; this was _certainly_ news to him. “How long ago have you known?” he weakly asked of his manager.

Brian glanced nervously at his watch as though wishing to be absorbed into it, “Oh, who can say?” he affirmed with a trivializing wave of the hand, “Time is… evasive, after all…”

“How long did ye’ know about this, _Brian_?” Paul persisted, sternly and forcefully. “And when were you planning on telling the rest of us?!” He daringly held his ground directly in front of the manager so he couldn’t choose to overlook his presence.

It was Eppy’s turn to frown in massive guilt and remorse, “Not too long ago, actually…”

“ _When_?” Paul demanded ruthlessly, “We’re all adults ‘ere, are we not? Don’t y’think you owe me the truth?”

Eppy swallowed hard. “I uh… knew before the press conference.” The cat was out of the bag now. And there it was lying in the open.

“ _What_?”

“I should’ve acted upon it,” Eppy murmured, suddenly beside himself all over again, “But somehow, I just couldn’t bring myself to do it… I thought we’d make it! I thought we’d be okay! I was going to call a doctor myself as soon as it was all good and over!”

Shaking his head in an air of finality, Paul turned on his manager and started to walk again. He couldn’t bring himself to even begin to respond. Eppy and Mal… they’d known all along…

On and on Paul walked; completely unaware of anything but the fact. The leering fact slapping him in the face. The fact that they’d known all along and hadn’t had the common decency to let on to a single member of their band just what exactly it was that they were being faced with. That they’d heard from a doctor just how sick Johnny was and had deliberately chosen to do nothing about it… Chose to put it all on the backburner until… until… it was too late…

“There you are, Paul! Didn’t you ‘ear? We ‘ave to get to the hospital!”

Paul barely took notice of Ringo, even as he stood there with the door open. The same doorway that had been standing there with inviting arms when John had inadvertently collapsed midway through it. Collapsed and stopped breathing… while Eppy and Mal had all the heads up in the world…

“Paul? Did ye ‘ear me?”

The callousness was back with a vengeance. The bassist had reached his limit of startling revelations… And the bassist, in turn, had shut himself off. There was no entering the mind of Paul McCartney. “Let’s go then,” was his mechanical, lifeless response.


	28. Tomorrow Never Knows

Hospital waiting rooms were terribly unpleasant. Tense, frightening, gloomy, dark. Insufferable places. A drag. No one ever wished to be crudely crammed into one but at the same time, they were highly necessary if one was keen on seeking out the news on an ill or injured loved one or gravely awaiting the summoning hand of a potential caretaker for the better benefit of their health— or lack thereof. Currently, the heavy-hearted Beatles were caught in the midst of both apprehension-spawning categories. Testing, which had consisted of a terribly undesirable and painful spinal tap, had been done on all three of them, and now they struggled with half a mind anxiously awaiting their yielded results while the remaining half of their mind was stuck waiting out any figment of news to be uttered on their beloved band mate. Concern and fear had claimed complete control of their being. Nervous habits had eased out of the woodwork as a direct result and inadvertent snappy remarks and comments were being made all the time as levels of worry and unease fluctuated continuously and sporadically. It was a situation they weren’t quite accustomed to and not one of them had the faintest idea of how to properly handle it. Not the Beatles. Not Eppy. Not even Mal.

Mal had yet to make an appearance since the Beatles’ arrival to the hospital and it was revealed to them after a while of prolonged wondering that he was in a different portion of the hospital currently undergoing the hellish testing that the band had just seen themselves through. Doctors had summoned Eppy just shortly following the revelation and he’d disappeared into what might as well have been a trap door, leaving the band under the watchful eye of their head of security. While the three Beatles were gratefully out of the woods in terms of such testing, their minds were far from set at ease. They still had their pending results serving as a constant presence and Lennon’s unaccounted for condition was endlessly bearing just as heavily on their souls. It didn’t entirely help matters either that the nagging consequential physical pain stemming from their brutal testing was still ever-present, plaguing their bruised backs with every twist and turn they made— helping to make their wait even more uncomfortable. Ringo especially, couldn’t stop grimacing and groaning in discomfort, his reactions proving irrationally bothersome to his observing mates.

Paul, who was barely in a state of handling as it was, could hardly begin to corral what was left of his waning patience. Each grimace and groan courtesy of his mates— all of which should’ve awakened his empathy, only served as wedge driving a ridge between him and every ounce of tolerance he was remotely capable of. The results were unpleasant and Paul knew it. Still he couldn’t find the control he needed. More so, he didn’t want to. As far as he could see, not one of them had a thing to whine about, except maybe George. The pain was unbearable at times but they were still better off than John was. Even George, miserable as he was, was better off than John. For now…

Ringo finally whimpered one time too many and Paul found himself irrationally losing his temper, the last of his tolerance evaporating at the instantaneous portrayal of his frustration, “Fer chrissake, quit yer bloody squirming, would ye’, Ritch?! Yer bloody making me uncomfortable!”

“Well, ‘m’not the one drawing eyes,” Ringo casually responded with a flicker of a wince, gesturing casually to the audience of patients and patients’ loved ones all around them, “This _is_ a waiting room, love.” He grinned cheekily despite the pain still present on his face.

Paul glowered at him, “Just stop,” he muttered irritably.

“Well, I can’t right ‘elp it!” the drummer petulantly responded, defensively coming to his own rescue, “It ‘urts like mad!” He shuddered, recalling the still much too vivid memory of the seemingly unethical medical procedure, “Bloody needle easily rivaled the size of me entire body in case ye’ weren’t aware!”

George sighed wearily from his slumped position on the other side of Paul, his eyes drooping tiredly as he made a feeble attempt at massaging his temples, “I remember it jus’ fine on me own along with everything else they did,” he muttered drearily, “Didn’t realize things would get so bloody invasive.”

Ringo shrugged. “All they did was stab me with a bleeding needle the size of the Eiffel Tower and take me vitals… Said everything was normal as far as they could tell.”

“Well, congratulations… would ye’ like a bloody medal while yer at it?” George muttered, his own petulance growing as he glared daggers at the drummer.

“What did they tell ye’, Harri?” Ringo asked, hesitantly overlooking his heated look.

George grumbled grudgingly, continuously glaring back at both his mates, “That I ‘ave a fever and extensive tests might be needed,” he mumbled morosely, his mood clearly remaining on its one-way track to surly and beyond, “What the ‘ell else were ye’ expecting they were gon’ tell me? That me mum’s the bloody queen and everything’s suddenly hunky dory?”

Ringo frowned, finding he was nearly rendered speechless by the lead guitarist’s blunt, sharp-edged wording. Somehow, despite the vagueness and lack of verification behind the content of his declaration, he felt even less at ease. Immediately, he shifted into mother-bear mode, a lesser known side to him that had been presenting itself even more than the drummer in him lately, “Can’t ye’ see that it’s going to be all right, love?” he asked, grasping to the last bit of hope his small-framed body was able to produce.

George gave a feeble shrug of indifference towards his mate’s need to boost his self-assuredness. Before he knew it, he was wearing the fakest grin he’d ever constructed. “Sure!” he responded mockingly, doubt-filled eyes narrowing vehemently on him, “Until it’s me own turn to collapse, that is.”

Ringo could hardly blame him any longer. Their youngest had seen far too much. Still, he couldn’t seem to suppress his prolonged determination to continue believing that things would in fact, turn out okay. From his line of perspective; what was there to look forward to without hope? Nothing but simple, plain, bleak reality. “You’ll _both_ be okay,” he stubbornly whispered, the statement falling just short of inaudible, “Both you and Johnny, whether or not ye’ choose to believe it.” He and Paul, they’d make sure of it. They’d take up the cynical slack— spun by the ailing half of the band.

Judging by the scowl Paul was currently wearing and had been wearing for a good portion of the past hour, Ringo wasn’t so sure he was on the same plane of faith as should’ve been predestined. Taking in the additional far-off look shrouding his eyes, he couldn’t help vaguely wondering what was capable of bringing such mental anguish to his face. It was possible that it was strictly John-or-George-related, but if so, the scowl seemed hardly necessary. If anything, he would think a portrayal of a frown reflective of sorrow and worry would be more appropriate… Not blatant anger.

“What’s the matter, Paul?” Ringo bluntly found himself asking, driven by a sprouting need to ensure that his mate was coping all right.

The facial expression harbored by the younger musician only proceeded to harden in place of a response.

“Paul?” Ringo persisted. He suddenly had an uncontrollable need to know that somehow the remainder of the day would go smoothly for the rest of them or what passed for smoothly by this point. If such a thing were to occur, he couldn’t have steady, balanced Paul cracking up as well. It already seemed that all odds were running against him enough as it was.

The bass player still didn’t respond, forcing the drummer to rethink his mild approach. Frowning, he impulsively reached out and grabbed his mate’s arm, “ _Paul_!!” he sternly exclaimed.

“ _What_?!” Paul turned on him with such anger, Ringo found no other action suitable than to recoiled immediately.

The drummer swallowed hard before replying, “Paul, what’s the matter?” he asked feebly.

“What’s the matter…? What’s the matter…?” Paul echoed inserting cynical scoffs in between. He brought his rock-hard gaze to settle on the docile blues that belonged to his mate, “You’dliketo _know_ what the matter is, Ritch?”

Ringo nodded hesitantly, swallowing hard once again.

Paul shook his head as though the drummer were foolish for wishing to proceed into what might as well have been labeled no man’s land. “So be it…” he mumbled. He took a moment to collect his thoughts before reluctantly beginning the elucidating explanation his mate waited for with bated breath. “Y’know how long Brian and Mal ‘ave been keeping Johnny’s condition a secret?” he asked slowly, darkly.

Ringo furrowed his brows and shook his head, his eyes achieving utmost solemnity. “No…” he hesitantly responded, “but I’ve the feeling I’m about to find out…”

He’d barely finished speaking before Paul started up again, his eyes burning with a form of enragement that hardly seemed characteristic of him.“They knew about it _before_ the press conference,” Once going, he couldn’t seem to put a cork on the waterfall of words as they tumbled from his mouth, “They knew _beforehand_ that Lennon was in need of hospitalization. Did they take matters into their own hands?! _No_! They let it come down to this!!” The bassist frantically flailed his arms all about him, gesturing to the world as a whole, “ _This_!!” he repeated for blatant emphasis. He started to sob quietly, “Jesus _Christ_ …”

“Paul, I’m sure none of this was done on purpose,” Ringo softly responded, his eyes heavy with sympathy.

“Like it matters by this point!!” Paul snapped, his voice erupting full force into a hoarse growl, “Brian told me how serious John’s condition is. He could die, Ritch! _Bloody ‘ell_ , he could _die_!!”

The sympathy vanished and Ringo’s eyes narrowed mechanically on his friend, the instinctive action fueled by surging disapproval. He was suddenly fed up with all the negativity carelessly being thrown about the band. Especially from Paul in the face of a particularly desolate George. Didn’t he know he had to be strong? It was _his_ duty. It was _their_ duty to be strong for the sake of both their mates. Strength went hand in hand with hope which was all they had. “You shut yer gob, McCartney!!” the drummer barked out before he was even able to gain the slightest bit of control on his spontaneous actions. Had he not been so frustrated, he might even have been a bit surprised by his own force. “That’s quitter talk! What Johnny needs is fer us to be there fer him,” he hastily explained, “How do y’think he’d react to yer practically killing ‘im off?! How should George take this?” He shot a glance to George. Their lead guitarist was staring at them, his eyes wide with what could easily have been read as fear. Ringo knew he was dwelling on Paul’s most recent outburst. ‘ _He could die, Ritch! Bloody ‘ell, he could die!!_ ’ Such lively spirit, McCartney.

“Me mum died in a hospital, Ritch!” Paul responded almost plaintively, his words escaping in choked painful sounding bursts, “Forgive me for fearing for the life of me best mate, as well!”

“Well, miracles do ‘appen, Macca,” Ringo sighed, softening his voice and allowing the empathy that came natural to him to regain its forward flow, “You ‘aven’t been Lennon’s optimistic voice of reason all these years fer nothing. He’ll be fine. He _has_ to be.” He drew in a deep shaky, feeling the painful emotion deep in his heart, “Look at me!” he frantically urged his mate, “Odds ‘ave been against me me whole life but… I’m alive, aren’t I? I made it through! I’m a bloody walking, talking miracle! Jus’ ask me parents! The stories they could tell ye’…”

Paul said nothing.

So Ringo went on in almost too frenzied a manner, his eyes just as feverishly animated as his words, “Jus’ last month I was in the hospital but I healed up nicely in no time at all! See how miracles ‘appen?”

“You had tonsillitis, Ringo. You ad’ yer tonsils removed. Y’weren’t dying.” Paul muttered flatly.

“…Right…” Ringo murmured, after nearly too long a pause. He sounded different now. Hurt. Offended. McCartney could’ve kicked himself for the ruthless string of unfeeling words having just poured from his mouth. And all the drummer had been trying to do was put things into perspective for him.

“I guess I don’t much count fer nothing then,” Ringo mumbled, his words barely audible. He smiled sadly and turned away, “Well, now I know…”

Paul remorsefully lowered his head, his shoulders sagging in disgust directed at himself. Already anger was eating at him. Already he was losing control. Control that he’d barely had to begin with.

“The fuck’s wrong with ye’, Paul?” George snapped, making a failed attempt to sit up in his seat. He flailed miserably before giving up altogether. Despite the flare-up of pain in his face, his glare held steady.

“I didn’t mean it…” Paul murmured. Ringo’s words were the furthest thing from the truth in the bass player’s eyes. The drummer meant the world to him. He meant the world to all of them. The three of them; him, John, and George, had been undoubtedly beside themselves with extreme fear and worry that fateful day following his unanticipated collapse during a photo shoot. His high fever at the time had led to hospitalization which had eventually led to the removal of his tonsils when the cause of illness was confined to their swelling. It had been a mess having to perform with a replacement that lacked all the charm and charisma the drummer radiated with so much ease. He counted for _everything_. He mattered more than words were even capable of depicting. Paul _really_ could’ve kicked himself for trapping himself in his own selfish world and hurting Ringo’s feelings in return. “Ritch, I’m sorry!” he blurted out ruefully, “I _really_ didn’t mean it. ‘M’just worried… and I guess I don’t handle it in the greatest way. It tends to consume me rather…”

Ringo searched his band mate’s eyes for the genuine spark that would set his words in stone. “John’ll be fine, regardless of what they find, Macca,” he solemnly revealed after a while with a small smile, the hunt proving successful, “We’ll all be fine.”

Despite the drummer’s stubborn determination to remain positive, Paul could tell he was no longer on board with what he was trying to convince him of. His eyes were beginning to betray him as though they’d forgotten their duty of upholding and instilling proper amounts of assurance in the questioning faces of those around him. It was highly possible that he’d never been on board to begin with but had been desperately scraping the bottom of the well of hope for too long now in search of something substantial. Sure he’d broadcasted his optimism in as confident a manner as he was normally capable of but it no longer stopped his eyes from bearing his soul. It no longer stopped the fear from shining through. And why should it? This was all so foreign. So unnatural. So unearthly. There wasn’t a thing that the drummer was capable of saying that would change anything in even the slightest. There was nothing Paul could say either. The bass player was in frantic need of change. He wanted answers… He wanted a reversal of time.

McCartney heavily sighed. “I sure hope so, Rings…” he mumbled finally to the words of his mate. “Hope the same fer Geo, as well,” He glanced to George, about to question how he was feeling only to find that the guitarist had managed to slip into a fitful bit of sleep; the onset much quicker than would’ve been settling.

Ringo followed his gaze, surprise driving the subsequent reaction from him. “Cor…” he whispered.

Paul shook his head sadly, “Something’s definitely off … and I’m not so sure it’s any different from what we’re already dealing with…”

The words hung in the air like a dense, ominous fog. And this time it was Ringo’s turn to lower his head in resulting fear for the situation. Perhaps, there was only so much hope one could hide behind before it began to cloud reality. Had he learned nothing from watching Eppy succumb to the same mistake over the past day and a half?

Under circumstances of the norm, whenever things would escalate to such extreme levels of dissatisfaction, one of them would take the time to put things into perspective for all of them and their world, gone astray, would be righted once again. All it would take were a few uplifting words to place them back up at the toppermost of the poppermost. Sometimes these motivational words would originate from Paul, sometimes from John, and sometimes from George and Ringo, himself. _All_ were capable of speaking the correct words of wisdom— when the scenario seemed readily redeemable, that was…

Somehow though, these circumstances weren’t in the least bit normal so naturally, no one was capable of mentally weaving such verbal magic. It was like being presented with a song to sing, but not knowing all the words… or choosing to write a report on a specific book, but not knowing the outcome of the book of topic. There didn’t seem to be enough dialogue readily available this time around; even by the hand of a particular bassist known for his endless spewing of hope-motivated words. Or a particular drummer who would sometimes take up the bassist’s slack when his words weren’t enough. It wasn’t that the words didn’t exist, they simply weren’t fitting. There _was_ no real way of applying them. What was there for him to say to help make things right when they were increasing in wrongness all the time? That things would pan out just fine? While his mouth seemed constantly intent on providing such blind optimism, how could he possibly know? How could he achieve any form of allied insight when it seemed all possible odds in possession of the universe were against them? How could he turn a blind eye to the fact that things were falling apart and there wasn’t a thing he could do about it? But that was what was happening here. The John he knew and loved was at what seemed to be the point of no return and the George he knew and loved was quickly fading away and… all he could do was watch. Watch helplessly as the sky fell all about him.

Feeling suddenly at an uncontainable loss under the suppressive hand of melancholy, the drummer found himself drifting on a one-way track towards his most distant past. A past that had been filled to the brim with more illness and grief than he’d ever wanted to remember. ‘ _Odds ‘ave been against me me whole life…’_ he heard himself proclaiming, his mind echoing the words he’d spoken earlier. ‘ _The stories they could tell…_ ’

All the times he’d been admitted to the hospital began to flicker before him like a defective film projector rattling through the remnants of a slideshow. He saw it all successively; each transient memory as solid as reality. Watched it all unravel from the grave reactions of the doctors who had loyally watched over him to the breakdown of his loved ones into a myriad of tears as they’d stood in his hospital room at the reception of news unkind to their ears. He had no possible way of having witnessed this but somehow he could even see his parents as they sat up in the waiting room many a night, eagerly awaiting the news on whether or not their only child was going to survive the night. Suddenly for what seemed like the first time in his life, he knew how they all felt… Through John… through George… even through Paul…

 _‘…but I’m alive, aren’t I? I made it through! I’m a bloody walking, talking miracle!_ ’ Every single day was a miracle— for everyone; weak or strong. His mum had told him so, a long, long time ago. ‘ _See how miracles ‘appen_?’ That should be enough to see him through. Shouldn’t it?


	29. She Said She Said

George sat up and blinked into the rays of sun streaming down through the trees. It was so peaceful, the only sound emanating from distance birds situated in distant trees. Scrubbing at his eyes, he took a moment to glance about him, coming to the gradual realization that he hadn’t the slightest idea of where he was. All around him stretched tall pine trees, as far as the eye could see. Somehow, he’d ended up in the woods… somewhere… in the midst of a random patch of pinewood forest that looked as though its location could be anywhere in the world. It was too bad that not an ounce of sense could be pulled from this unforeseen adventure. Maybe rather than worry about his whereabouts, he’d actually be able take it upon himself to allow a bit of relaxation to claim him. He needed to relax. He needed to unwind. Something had been bothering him lately… but what was it? Was it this recent transition in scenery? He glanced about him again, hoping to recapture a bit of recollection that would lead to the jogging of his memory. Nothing. Not a thing was happening. Where _was_ everyone? Where were John and Paul and Ringo? Where was Mal or Eppy? Where was _anyone_? When had he even arrived to… to… wherever this was? What was he doing here? How had he…? Where…? Questions began to rifle through George’s mind at a startling pace that he couldn’t quite seem to control. He could vaguely remember that he’d been about to do something with someone… before this very moment… But… what was it? …And with whom?

“Georgie! There you are!”

The lead guitarist bolted up and turned towards the source of the voice. Paul emerged seemingly from out of the woodwork. _Woodwork_ … George chuckled at the formed pun within his head.

“What are you doing here all by yerself?” Paul went on to ask in the absence of George’s response.

“I-I don’t rightly know… I’m not sure…” George murmured uncertainly.

Paul began to approach, stopping just short of him to give his watch a glancing at. “Well, this won’t do. It simply won’t do. We have a show to get to, y’know.”

“A what?”

“A show! ‘Ave y’lost yer mind or are ye’ just naturally daft?”

“I-I can’t… I don’t ‘ave me guitar!”

Paul shook his head indicating his disappointment, “Lazy and unprepared I see. Been hanging around our Lennon too much, it seems.”

“‘S’not the only thing he’s given ye’,” Ringo suddenly appeared beside Paul. George had to scrub at his eyes to clarify that he was, in fact, seeing what he was seeing. “ _Ringo_?”

“At yer service!” Ringo grinned.

“Wh-where’d y’come from? And where’s John? He’s not going to come out from the woodwork, as well, will he?”

“ _Woodwork_!” Ringo started to laugh, “That’s real clever, Geo… Seeing as we’re in the woods!”

“Where are we?” George went on to ask, “I feel like Alice in Wonderland or something…”

“Y’can’t be Alice, yer not a girl,” Ringo affirmed flippantly, “Perhaps, yer more like the dormouse… the one at the tea party with the mad hatter and the march hare! John’s the mad hatter of course and—”

George shook his head, his frustration towards the unknown growing, “Where’s John?” he repeated. He couldn’t place why but… suddenly he was oddly concerned for his whereabouts…

Both Paul and Ringo turned with an uncanny unison just as John shimmered into view between them. George scrubbed at his eyes again and turned to take him in his newly solidifying form in surprise. “John?!”

“Who were ye’ expecting, Buddy Holly?” John sarcastically mumbled; looking all but thrilled with George’s shock at his expense.

“Perhaps, he was expecting Elvis Presley,” Ringo joked.

“Too bad, I’m all there is.” John grumbled, looking suddenly irritated and much paler than when he’d first arrived. “Don’t we ‘ave a show to get to?”

George couldn’t keep resulting shock from overtaking him as he continued to gaze at John who was seemingly wasting away before his very eyes. Before he could begin to question him, the rhythm guitarist doubled over and started coughing. Wide-eyed, George started towards him, “Are you okay?” he was rapidly asking before the words could properly form on his tongue.

“Does it look like he’s okay?” Paul asked, turning to glare at him as if it was his fault and only his fault that John was about to hack up a lung.

“Well, no but…”

“Get away from me… I’m fine!” John snapped, straightening up. He was much paler now, completely washed out it seemed.

“Yer not okay,” George shakily confirmed, as though he suddenly had a medical degree, “Are ye’ feeling okay? Ye’ look like yer about to keel over!”

John nonchalantly shrugged as though they were merely discussing the weather, “‘Aven’t been feeling the greatest lately, really… Think ‘m’dying…”

George furrowed his eyebrows. What an unusual thing to say. Even more unusual was the lack of reaction from Paul and Ringo. “John, what are ye’—”

Again, John started coughing. A thick heavy, heavy cough. Something red spurted from his mouth. He was coughing up blood…

Frantic, George turned back to his other mates to see if they were remotely seeing what he was seeing. Stoic, remained their faces. They were almost robotic in appearance. “Tell John it’s not true!” he found himself yelling fearfully, “Tell him he’s not--”

“That’s impossible, Geo,” Paul responded coldly, “He’s gone, y’see…”

“What?”

“Gone to meet his maker. What aren’t ye’ getting?”

George shook his head, “No! John’s right here! He’s…” He ripped his gaze from Paul to the spot between him and Ringo. The spot was now empty and Lennon was nowhere to be seen. How could that be?

“And now it’s yer turn, Geo!” Ringo sneered. George turned to him. Suddenly he was in a doctor’s uniform. The drummer glanced at his watch, “‘S’only a matter of time, Harrison.” His words were calm. Eerily calm.

Paul nodded, his head motion drawing George back towards him. He was suddenly dressed in a black robe, looking oddly similar to the grim reaper. He glanced at his watch, “Tick, tock,” he ominously stated. He started towards George and—

Harrison sat up with a gasp. New surroundings manifesting about him as all around him, the woods peeled away revealing a room of some sort… A doctor’s office? A hospital? Some sort of a white sitting room. He didn’t even pause to revel in the familiarity of it all as it began to wash over him. It didn’t matter. He didn’t want to die. The lead guitarist drew his knees up in the chair he sat in and hugged them close to him, whimpering slightly at the faded nightmare, not to mention, the intense pounding of his heart and head.

“Geo?” Paul rose from his seat a few feet over and started towards him, genuine concern in his eyes, “Ye’ all right?”

George recoiled as he came to terms with the bassist’s direction of movement. Though he no longer looked like the grim reaper, George wasn’t about to take any unnecessary chances. “I-I don’t wanna die!” he whimpered, gazing up at him with teary, fear-filled eyes, “Stay back!!”

“Geo… What are ye’ on about?” Paul demanded, sitting beside him despite his wishes.

“I don’t want to die!!” George repeated firmly, “I know yer the grim reaper… and Ringo’s a doctor and… he’s… he’s…”

Paul frowned at the assertion of George’s fears, so childlike in nature, “Ye’ were ‘aving a nightmare, love. ‘S’all right…”

“But it isn’t!! John died!! He was right there and then he wasn’t!!”

“A nightmare, love,” Paul affirmed, worriedly drawing the guitarist into a soothing hug, “A nightmare is all it is.’

“Wh-where’s John then?” George asked, held off reality struggling to make reappearance in his head.

“He’s been hospitalized… Remember?” Paul asked, gazing with heightened concerned at the intense flush in his mate’s face.

“He’s not dead?”

“Of course not!” Paul managed a halfhearted smile, “It’s all right, Geo. It’ll all be all right in the end.” He placed a hand to his forehead, his smile fading in an instant. The lead guitarist was burning up.

“I had a dream…” George mumbled, “John coughed up blood and died… and then you…” he pointed to Paul for emphasis, “You… and Ringo… said I’d be next…”

Paul shook his head, “‘S’just a dream, Harri,” he went on to cajole, proceeding to stroke his dark hair affectionately, “‘S’all it is, love.”

George’s eyes were wet as he lifted them to Paul’s level, “Johnny’s really sick, isn’t he?”

A lie came to Paul’s tongue but he bit it back, “Y-yes, Geo… he is…”

“And they still don’t know what he’s got?”

Paul solemnly shook his head, “No… they don’t… but… I promise they’ll find out…”

“Macca… what if…What if I’ve got what John’s got?”

“It’s what we’re here for…” Paul revealed, “…to find out… and the doctor’s— they’ll operate accordingly. Provide antibiotics if needed or work their tails off to repair whatever might be wrong…”

“Why all of us?” George asked, “Why should we all need testing? I’m the only other that’s sick, aren’t I? Y’feel all right, don’t ye’, Paul?”

Paul nodded, “I do… and Ritch… and Eppy and Mal… The hospital wants to be safe is all. We’ve all been exposed… and they believe that the medications should have what it takes to prevent us from falling ill, as well.”

“I’m… a bit… scared…” George admitted weakly, sounding so much like a child, it was unnerving.

‘ _Some fever_ ,’ Paul mused, disconcertion proceeding to grip him. It had made even Lennon childlike at times… “No matter what, Geo, me and the others, we won’t leave yer side. John’s either.”

“Promise?” George sleepily asked, stifling a yawn.

“Yeah… I promise,” the bassist responded earnestly.

 

* * *

 

The pain… it was everywhere. Completely integrated with everything that was and had ever existed. It stemmed from whatever the fuck had taken his body over. It stemmed from repeated, ruthless, intrusive hands. It stemmed from his overly sensitive ears as they strained to tune into and make sense of the low humming murmurs that floated about him. Humdrum humming— like various insects… or flies. Bees were more like it. John was surrounded by bees. Busy bees, busy making a commotion as they fluttered aimlessly about him; beating their larger-than-life wings gruffly against him and occasionally injecting their freshly sharpened, shiny stingers into various places. But why so many? Perhaps, he’d upset one of the hives as he’d often done as a mischievous tot while looking for a thrill on one of his very early childhood adventures. He was trouble. John Lennon was trouble and now they wanted revenge… _Revenge_. What a word. It even sounded threatening. _Venge… Vengeful… Vengeance…_

A sharp sting presently entered his arm and John woozily swatted it away. Bloody bees… just… wouldn’t… die… He wondered vaguely how much bee venom it would take to kill someone. If this was what was going wrong, it was no wonder he felt so lousy. He was dying.

Every now and then, one of these bees would attempt to buzz his name in what seemed to be a concentrated effort to stimulate some kind of response from him. No matter what, he could never seem to answer. His throat seemed painfully swollen shut and… his head and neck… they ached far too much. ‘ _Venom side effects_ …’ John mused with a bit of a smirk. Had he actually smirked or had he only imagined that he had? His face even hurt too much to properly comply with any expressions he might want to portray. The trivial wonderment slipped away into the surrounding haze. He was dying. And there wasn’t a thing he could do about it.

Perhaps he could save the others… at least… _The others_ … _Who were they again_? _There was… Paul… and… Stu… No, that wasn’t right… Was it Steve? Pete? Keith?? No… still not right…_ ’ John shook his head in growing frustration at his own shortcomings, dominant as they’d been of late. The bees, increasing in ferocity, began to swarm angrily about him. ‘ _Ringo!!_ _That was it_ … _Ringo— whose real name was—_ ’ As quickly as Lennon had inflated with pride at the recalled memory, he’d deflated at his failed attempt to collect the next item of interest. ‘ _What was Ringo’s real name_? _The one that wasn’t… Ringo_?’ Names weren’t important right then, he dizzily decided after a while. _But who was the third_? _The third member of… what were they again_? The angry hums about him increased as though running on a timer and suddenly the rhythm guitarist felt highly threatened by their presence. The bees… Surely they’d kill him if he couldn’t remember. Lennon couldn’t help an unbearable feeling of wanting to panic. ‘ _Who was it, then? His name began with a… a… ‘J’? No… his own name began with a ‘J’…didn’t it? ‘J’ for…_ ’ Why couldn’t he focus?? It was too hot. That was it. But why was it so hot? _Bloody hell… Bloody, fucking hell,_ he was _bloody_ , _fucking_ burning up. Woozily melting like an out of place iceberg in the middle of the Sahara. _And what was all this bloody haze_? _Was someone smoking… without him_? _How dare… he_! _When he found out who_ … _he’d_ … _he’d_ …

As if to answer his unformed question, someone stepped through the thick haze and John could just make out the form of a frowning face as it proceeded to give out orders to a … someone. One of those bees possibly… _Busy, busy bees_ … They were in cahoots… all of them. And he was a prisoner… completely at their mercy. And not one of them had the decency to include them in on their smoking party. It was the least they could do, really… Help out a doomed prisoner… Help him to enjoy his last bit of time on earth; however long that would be… However long the venom would take to fully run its course…

 _Who_ was smoking? It was a simple inquiry. _Who had dared to roll up without him_? Perhaps, it was his bees. Somewhere in the room or wherever he was, a group of bees were in a corner sitting in a circle passing around a joint. He imagined four of them. They’d resemble his group… his band… ‘ _Who were they again_? _The_ _Beatles…_ _That’s right_!!’ Or more appropriately; the _Bee_ -tles. John found he couldn’t help wanting to laugh at his silly crafted pun. If he could’ve or if he could even begin to withstand the pain, he probably would’ve. He was a bee… and beside him… Paul, Ringo, and George— _that was it!!_ _George_ was their third…or fourth if he included himself. _But what about them again_? Oh yeah… _Bees_. He was a bee and Paul, Ringo, and George were bees. They could fly. _John_ could fly— which meant by default, he was no longer a prisoner in this… hazy, hazy dungeon. If he concentrated, he could flutter his wings until take off ensued. He had wings didn’t he? Of course he did. He was a bee! What kind of bee didn’t have wings? A sorry sort of bee, that’s who. And John Lennon wasn’t a sorry sort of bee. Not now he wasn’t. Soon he’d be out of here. Soon he’d be free. They’d be free. Free as birds. Only they weren’t birds. They were bees. Free as bees could be. John could feel himself getting lighter now. Somewhere above him, a skylight had opened up. How convenient…

“His temperature’s out of control!!!!” someone shouted… “It’s pushing the boundaries of 105!”

“Quick, bring it down!! Fetch the ice!!”

“But he’s beginning to seize!!”

‘ _What a mess…_ ’ John mused, feeling oddly at peace as he drifted away.

“Give him another injection!!”

“Prepare him for transport then get him to ICU stat!!

“But he isn’t stable enough!!”

“He’ll die if we don’t!! Would you rather have that on your conscience?”

“Right away, doctor. Making the arrangements.”

A myriad of injections brought John heavily and painfully back to earth. Once again, it was hot. So bloody unbearably hot. A soft, airy hand graced the right side of his face in a way that proved soothingly familiar and he had just enough strength to open his eyes to investigate. Surrounded by a glowing aura stood his mother by his side complete with the most loving look he’d ever seen stemming from the emerald green that was her eyes. Her red hair glowed with a fiery passion enveloping the serene calm that was her face. “Keep strong and you’ll be just fine, love,” she whispered sincerely. And it all went black from there.

 

* * *

 

George had been afraid to close his eyes, let alone, fall back to sleep following the stubborn, haunting grips of his nightmare. So, he’d sat up in the waiting room, stiff as a board, while Paul made repeated attempts at soothing his frazzled form in a way that proved similar to how a mother would coddle a frightened child. Truthfully, the bassist wanted him to return to sleep where he’d be free from the anxiety of all harsh and realistic happenings. All the worry he was falling subject to in his sick state wasn’t good. There was no telling how much damage it was doing to his frail, weakened body. It was doing a number on Paul himself, and there wasn’t the slightest sign of weakness in his hale and hearty body. He was a tense and apprehensive mess. And Ringo… Paul could see what it was doing to him. The drummer looked as though he hadn’t slept in years, though in truth, it had only been a few hours since Lennon’s collapse. Stress had paled his face permanently and the bags beneath his eyes were a bit more than unsettling. He actually looked quite unwell. Ill. A few times, Paul had found himself succumbing to sternly questioning the drummer on whether or not he was handling all right. He knew Ringo was particularly susceptible to illness. Chances were if he fell ill with whatever this was, he’d fall the hardest… They couldn’t have that. They just couldn’t.

“I wish you’d try and catch a kip, Rings,” Paul sighed, glancing to him from his seat beside George, “You look—”

“Awful, I know…” the drummer filled in for him with a tired smile, “I know. You’ve told me several times already.”

“Are _y’sure_ yer feeling all right?”

Ringo nodded, his eyes portraying utmost sincerity as they had each and every time the bassist had chosen to badger him. “Knackered but… I feel all right, yeah…”

Paul still looked doubtful and Ringo frowned. What would it take to engrave his words into his brain? “‘Onestly, ‘m’just knackered!”

Paul couldn’t seem to wrap his head around the concept. He rose from his seat and swooped in on the drummer like a hawk tackling its prey. He had his hand to his forehead in a flash, taking in any abnormality he could readily seek out. “Well… you don’t seem to have a fever…” he murmured after a while. He looked oddly even more troubled by the revelation.

“Relax, would ye’, love?” Ringo insisted, sensing the tension radiating off his mate, “Give yerself a heart attack, y’will!” Come to think of it, Paul didn’t look so hot himself. “Are _you_ feeling all right?” he demanded, turning the tables on him. The bassist was shaking; a reaction Ringo hadn’t been able to take in from afar. Now that he was standing directly in front of him, there was a lot he could see now. And it was enough to conclude that something wasn’t right as far as visual assumptions went. “Paul?”

“‘M’fine…” Paul responded, his voice quavering just as much as his body.

Ringo reached for his forehead this time, and left it there. While there wasn’t a fever present, it was clear something was truly wrong. The drummer shook his head. “No. Yer not fine, Paul. What is it? Speak. Yer starting to worry me.”

“I-I don’t know what it is…” Paul murmured, his eyes mirroring blatant distress, “Something’s wrong… I can feel it…”

“Something’s wrong with you?”

“No…”

“Who?”

“I don’t know… I thought maybe it involved you and y’weren’t quite being honest with me about yer health but… it’s not… and… I’m not sure what to think, really…”

A woman cleared her throat from in front of them and all eyes gravitated towards her in a state of alarm. A rather stout nurse had come out of nowhere. The head nurse potentially, Paul mused. He wasn’t sure why, but he felt the tremors of his body increase even more at the sight of her ominous appearance.

“Has Mr. Epstein or Mr. Evans returned?” this nurse asked; her voice as stiff as her cold brown eyes.

Paul shook his head. “Not yet, I’m afraid. In fact, they’re—”

“I’m right here, actually,” interrupted a familiar and welcome voice. Both Paul and Ringo turned just as their road manager filed in through a pair of double doors to their left as if right on cue. Mal acknowledged the Beatles briefly before shifting his glance to the nurse. “What is it?” he tiredly asked, “I’m Mr. Evans.”

“Mr. Evans,” the head nurse declared briskly, pausing to take in his presence as if ensuring that it was, in fact, real, “I need to speak with you in private. It’s about Mr. John Lennon.” The nurse led him out of earshot and proceeded, without hesitation, to fill him in. “Mr. Evans, John Lennon has been moved to the ICU. I’m afraid he’s not doing well at all.”

 


	30. Let It Be

“He's dying, isn't he?”

One by one, all eyes turned in the direction the soft but bluntly spoken words had emanated from. George stood behind them with arms crossed adamantly over his chest; his dark brown eyes alit with an unforeseen fire as they burned into the stunned features of the head nurse.

“George…” Mal gently began, outstretching a hand in his direction.

“No!” the lead guitarist barked, inching just out of reach, “They’re supposed to be taking care of ‘im and he’s dying…”

“You should be sitting, Geo,” Paul responded softly but sternly. He started towards him but George backed away even further, his mannerisms proving very similar to that of a confused wild animal.

“I-I don’t need to,” he affirmed the bassist, his quavering voice rising several octaves at a time, “Just someone answer me!”

“She’s jus’ the nurse,” Ringo jumped in to explain, “The doctor—”

“ _Don’t_ underestimate her!” George interrupted, his sharp glare shifting briefly to the drummer, “She knows far more than she’s willing to let on! Johnny could be dead and she wouldn’t even tell us!”

Ringo bristled visibly, the lead guitarist’s words contributing to a chill that had befallen the room. “George, don’t talk like that!”

“‘S’true!” George went on, his voice shaking even more with building hysterics. His eyes were wild with increased distrust and blind accusation as he brought them back to the much too stoic face of the head nurse. “He’s dead, isn’t he?” he concluded, as though he’d received word from a separate unseen source.

“George, _sit down_!” Mal sharply reprimanded, deciding right then that he’d had and heard enough, “Yer coming off quite daft at the moment!”

The lead guitarist temporarily froze at the conducted tone of his road manager, his eyes briefly portraying an odd mixture of confusion and even fear. Then just as suddenly, real feelings reminiscent of lucidity evaporated in the blink of an eye to be replaced by the vaguely clouded lack of trust he’d been so keen on displaying, “I wanna see ‘im, then,” he stated quietly to no one in particular.

“ _What_? See who, Georgie?” Paul frowned.

“ _Johnny_. I want to see him!” George repeated, raising his voice with each word, “What aren’t y’gits getting?” He was terribly pale now, his face practically ghostly in appearance, save for the feverish flush hugging his cheeks.

Paul’s frown lengthened reactively, an unexplained feeling of dread beginning to bubble up from the center of his gut. Something was off with his band mate. Something wasn’t right at all. “A-are you okay, Georgie?” he croaked out, his voice dripping worry and apprehension.

“Where’s John?!” George shouted in response. He was staring through Paul now as though he wasn’t even there.

“Mr. Harrison, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to calm down,” the nurse spoke finally, “Your band mate is—” Her words tapered off unheard as George suddenly eased into a fit of whimpering. “They’ve left me…” he murmured, “Everyone’s left because I’m too young…”

“Geo, we’re right here!” Ringo proclaimed, rushing to his side. He lightly touched the youngest’s arm to further seal in his word. The lead guitarist failed to even flinch.

“Mr. Harrison?” the nurse questioned, beginning to suspect now that something was in fact, wrong. She promptly snapped her fingers directly in his face hoping to produce some type of responsive reaction. He didn’t blink; his eyes unseeing. “He’s delirious…” she presumed, proceeding to settle a hand against his sweaty forehead. “He’s burning up!” she announced after a while, “How long’s he been sick?”

“A-all day today… I think…” Paul quavered, “Might’ve started yesterday… I- I don’t know…” He gripped his hair in apprehensive distress. How could he not know? How could he not have seen this coming with all that John had recently put them through?

Mal settled a comforting hand upon the bassist’s shoulder, “We only know that he’s been ill today,” he clarified for him, “It came on rather suddenly it seems…”

The nurse shook her head, looking briefly apologetic, “Well, given that much, I’m afraid, he needs to be admitted… immediately.”

Both Mal and Ringo’s faces fell simultaneously while Paul’s went blank and emotionless.

“Not George too!” Ringo moaned, refusing to accept what might as well have been a death sentence. Impulsively, he gripped his mate’s arm in attempt to generate some kind of response, “C’mon, Georgie, snap out of it!” he pleaded, his voice dripping with desperation.

The generated reaction was just the opposite as the lead guitarist’s eyes rolled up in his head and his legs buckled beneath him.

“Bloody ‘ell, _George_!” Mal choked out, willing his body forward with just amount of time to save him from a brutal meeting with the floor. Seemingly paralyzed, Ringo could only stare as the nurse sprung into action to assess his mate’s vitals.

“He’s breathing but he needs medical attention, now!” she hurriedly relayed back to them, her voice rigid with a sense of urgency.

Ringo continued to stare, stony-faced; the only action his suddenly fragile body seemed readily capable of as the scene presented itself with an all out sense of unreality that he wasn’t familiar with. All he knew was that he felt somehow responsible. George had been conscious until he… until he… “Blimey!” the drummer whimpered pitifully to seal his own conclusions, “I’ve gone and broken ‘im!”

“I need a crash cart in here and a doctor, stat!” the nurse shouted, her words only helping to build his self-accusations.

A strange wail filled the air and it took Ringo nearly ages to realize that the sound was coming from his own raw and burning throat. The room was spinning by the time he managed to take even one step in George’s direction and somehow Paul had managed to beat him to the punch. How such a feat was remotely possibly considering the nonexistence of time was beyond the drummer’s current ability to comprehend. But, Paul was there beside George… and Mal… and the head nurse… He was in good hands. Better hands now that Ringo had learned to keep his to himself.

Mal looked up at him from where he knelt beside George and his eyes widened instantaneously. “Ritch…” he uttered. The drummer could make out that much and only that much. He wasn’t a lip reader… never really was. And why should he need to be now? Where was the sound? Why couldn’t he hear what was being said? Come to think of it… Why couldn’t he hear _anything_ at all? The concern riding Mal’s face said everything, however. Though what it said entirely was beyond Ringo’s immediate knowledge. ‘ _What about George_?’ he couldn’t help wondering, ‘ _Why wasn’t he directing his worry at George in place of him? It was George that had fallen… George that had gone unconscious…_ ’ With a quavering sigh, the drummer dropped to his knees. He couldn’t breathe… Why couldn’t he breathe? It was as though there suddenly wasn’t enough air in the room. It was as though the room was suddenly filling up with water. He couldn’t… he couldn’t…

“Ritch, what’s the matter?!” Mal’s voice proceeded to fill his head.

Ringo couldn’t answer. Couldn’t look at him. It was too much. He wasn’t equipped to handle so much.

“Ritchie?” Paul had now joined forces with their road manager’s concerned prodding, “Are you all right?”

His choked breaths were quickly increasing in strength, his struggles becoming all the more imminent through his repeated ragged gasping.

The nurse took one look at him, her eyes clouding over with even more concern. “Make that two crash carts!” she ordered to the staff now filling the room, “I’ve got another patient in the throes of a panic attack! Did I mention that this one’s also a member of the Beatles? Move! _Move_!”

“I-I’m all right!” the drummer managed to choke out in between deep, exaggerated breaths, “F’cus on Geo… Jus’ f’cus…”

The nurse stared hard at him, before dismissing him altogether. Within moments, more backup arrived and the room was flooded with additional staff and personnel. Demands were made as apprehension filled the air stemming from those who chose to look on. Questions were asked and just as well, questions were ignored, remaining unanswered as though the half of the band responsible didn’t matter and simply served as a hindrance. And within the quickest of an instant, it was all gone. And George was gone; carried off to some unknown portion of the hospital leaving behind shock. The worst kind of shock that would render one a stuttering mess or worse; rob one of speech entirely.


	31. There's A Place

He felt like he was suffocating. Drowning. As though the very air he craved was being expelled from his lungs and there wasn’t a molecule left in the world to replace it. It was possible he was dying… or that some kind of a murder was taking place. But who’s? His? _His_ murder? His _murder_. How odd. _Murder_. Mur. Der. Had the lead guitarist been capable of making a sound, he might’ve chuckled aloud at the fact that such a word had such unpleasant qualities to begin with. The more he mentally dwelled on it, the less sense it actually made. It was as though he’d singlehandedly reduced it from an actual word to a mere collection of sounds. _Murr-der_. The _murder_ of him. The murder of George Harold Harrison. Quite the name by the way...

But what had he done to deserve such a fate? Who would want him dead? Had he done something wrong? Had _he_ killed someone first and in turn had to face the same doom? While the lead guitarist had always firmly believed in justice, he could hardly begin to comprehend such a heavy topic as what could easily be perceived as hundreds of characters in white materialized out of nowhere and began swarming him; each and every one of them presenting themselves in a more menacing manner than the last. All of them ominous threats to his very being— or rather what was left of it at this point. Who were _they_? Perhaps they were aliens… He’d heard claims of alien abductions from various questionable people before. Of course, he’d never really been that much of a believer but… what if there’d been actual sincerity behind these stories all along? What if it were all true and happening to him right now? What would aliens even _want_ with him to begin with? Last he checked, he possessed nothing of true significant value. He was but a lowly musician… A lowly musician struggling to make his place in the world amongst other musicians of similar caliber. What could it be then? What could they want? Perhaps they wanted his talent. But if so, how would they go about extracting it from him? Would they stoop as low as to simply suck it from his brain? Was that even a remote possibility? What were aliens even capable of? Whatever it was, George was only sure of one thing. He wasn’t about to find out. No way, no how.

As if right on cue, as though they could read into his most private of thoughts, one of the mysterious figures in white dropped its face into his line of vision and proceeded to place a plastic cuplike object over his mouth. ‘ _A brain sucker_ ,’ George absently mused. But why try and access it through his mouth? Could one even get to the brain from the mouth? Pure madness, all of it. Regardless, the guitarist impulsively launched himself into defensive fight mode, desperate to save what was left of his altered mentality. Punches were thrown left and right eager to make contact with anything within his reach. Simultaneously, he kicked out his legs in a blind struggle to gain more ground. Muffled yelps were heard signaling the beginnings of an upheaval at his creation.

“Looks like he’s awake!” one of them reported in what sounded like genuine surprise.

“Well no shit. What the hell’s wrong with him?!”

“He’s delirious! What else would it be?” someone snidely responded.

“Well, what do we do?”

“Give him a sedative!”

“Are you sure that’s the absolute best route?”

“Do we _really_ have a choice? Just do it. _Now_!”

All at once, his right arm was pinned down with a seemingly inconceivable amount of strength. He tried to fight back but his bearings were once again, starting to slip from his conscious grip. Feeling suddenly weighed down all over again and exhausted beyond belief, he could only lay still as an extreme buzzing began to fill his ears. Mind control. They’d resorted to mind control. Resulting dizziness, claimed him sending his world into an automatic carousel ride.

Still struggling to seek some form of justice, he tried to mumble some kind of verbal protest at whatever ears were willing to listen but the words never made it past his tongue. There was a sudden sharp pinching sensation in his arm to follow and almost instantly everything faded into a muted, blurred haze of blended color. ‘ _What the_ …’ He continued to fight even then. Continued to fight to fend it all off. But the absence of light and sound was winning. Clearly it had the upper hand. Down. Down. Down he fell through a spiraling, fading whirlwind of colors; haunted by nothing more than the sounds of extreme silence harnessed by the inner mechanisms of his screaming brain. He was lost. Lost within his own head it felt like. Only it didn’t quite make sense. How was such a thing even possible? Aliens. They had to have played a part. They’d managed to shrink him somehow and trap him within his own mind where he could be a victim of himself forever. _Forever_. Forever was a long time.

 

**************

The chaos had died down for the time being and decisions courtesy of the ‘clearheaded’ were being formulated much to the remaining half of the Beatles’ dismay. A meager hour had passed and the band had yet to even _hear_ of George’s condition let alone receive an update on John’s. Resultantly, Paul and Ringo, more so Paul, were crawling out of their skins with worry forcing Evans to discover the hard way that they had no true intentions of abandoning the premises let alone their mates. While the road manager had known all along that it would be near impossible to drag the stubborn boys away from the source of their utmost concerns, he wasn’t in any way prepared for the onslaught of the irreversible staged sit-in adamantly thrown in his face by Paul in particular. Paul; the Beatles’ bassist who, while cheeky at times, was on any given day often the steady voice of reason rather than mayhem. Most shenanigans in turn were left up to the overly bold John Lennon who’d always exhibited a bit more of a mischievous, rebellious streak than any of the others. The fact that Paul had readily shifted into his defiant shoes went to show as a whole, the very extent of just how wrong things were shaping up to be. They needed to reset. The entire band needed some form of reset. And what better way to receive said reset than through the sleep they all desperately craved...

“We promised them we wouldn’t leave …” was Paul’s calm but inflexibly placed logic, “It was the last thing I said to George, really before everything went to complete shite...”

Mal sighed heavily. Every emotion he’d been feeling as of late was beginning to close in on him. Now he was certain he was beginning to feel suffocated. And still he had to maintain some form of control over everything for the sake of the remaining boys. “I’m sure he wouldn’t hold it against you if you left for the sole purpose of forty winks, Paul,” he sensibly attempted to rationalize.

“That’s beside the point, Mal!” the bassist unexpectedly retorted, his sudden outburst causing the road manager to draw back in alarm. “You didn’t see the look of relief on his face after I made such a promise. _I_ did! _Nor_ did you see the look of terror he’d been harboring beforehand! _We_...” He gestured frantically to the strangely quiet drummer seated beside him, “ _We_ did!” The amount of clear adamancy restricted to his impossibly large, passion filled doe eyes was enough to speak for both Beatles present.

Mal’s eyes outwardly portrayed as much sympathy on the subject matter as they could yield. “I understand, Paul,” he tried again, taking extra care to keep his voice level in fear of setting the edgy musician off even further, “But—”

“No you _don’t_ understand!” Paul irritably interjected, “George is our youngest and he could die! He could die and John... he could...”

“He won’t die, Paulie...” Ringo quietly put in, “Neither of them will. I wish you’d stop saying that.”

“How do _you_ know, Ritch?!” Paul shot at him.

“I just do...” was the drummer’s dull response.

Mal frowned at him. While the drummer was speaking the words that Paul needed to hear, the motive behind them didn’t seem to be sole optimism. While he’d been laden with worry as was cast from his eyes, he seemed oddly distant. On a separate plane from the here and now, it seemed. Not at all like his usual outgoing and optimistic self. Mal was certain he’d regret prying but the atypical mood emanating from the drummer was all but settling. “How do _you_ feel on the subject, Ritch?” he found himself asking, “I know you have Paul here masquerading as your own personal spokesperson, but you and I both know that you’re more than properly equipped with your own mindset and thought process to go along with it.”

From a spectator’s point of view, the drummer’s lackluster eyes hardly had what energy it took to lift from the confines of the floor to the eyelevel of his road manager. “...Everything’s fine...” he murmured flatly on command, his voice hoarse. His face startlingly drained of color, lacked all the traces of spontaneous emotion that would otherwise automatically radiate from him with ease.

“They need us!” Paul countered, turning to face the drummer with growing disbelief. “You of all people should know this!”

“Of course they _need_ you, Paul,” Mal tried yet again to reason. His eyes full of increased wonder, narrowed as he analytically continued to take in Ringo’s less than comforting appearance, “They’ll always need you. However, I just don’t think any of this is grounds enough to remain here overnight. You’re clearly knackered. We’re all terribly knackered and in desperate need of sleep,” He paused allowing his gaze to briefly lock with Paul’s, “I’m not sure how either of you are feeling on the matter but these chairs...” He paused to gesture to the collection of plastic waiting room chairs all about him, “I don’t fancy trying to make a bed out of them.”

Ringo shrugged his indifference, his face still lacking animation, “I don’t know... _I’ve_ managed to make due. Everything’s fine, y’know.”

The sternness melted briefly from the road manager’s face as he additionally took the time to study Ringo’s positioning on the single chair he currently occupied. He had simply drawn his knees up and rotated to the side so that his head rested easily on the back of his chair. Despite what he was readily insinuating, the drummer looked far from comfortable. Rather than outwardly calling his bluff, Mal instead made an effort in giving him the benefit of the doubt, “You’re also much smaller than I am, Ritch,” he tiredly pointed out.

“Then shrink,” Ringo responded lightly.

The absurd words were pronounced so nonchalantly, Mal found himself having to repeat them several times within his head just to make sure he had heard right. He had to have. There was no way his mind was remotely capable of making up such a thing. “What?” he questioned uncertainly.

“ _Shrink_!” Ringo sharply repeated, his eyes narrowing petulantly on the tall road manager, “‘S’not that hard. Alice could do it, so can you. Figure it out.”

“ _What_?” Mal repeated for lack of better response. He turned to look at Paul who simply shrugged in return. Everything about the bassist’s bewildered facial expression signified that he hadn’t the slightest clue what the drummer was on about. Mal turned back to Ringo, “Ritch, you’re not entirely making sense...” he stated, slight worry beginning to surpass his initial confusion, “I can’t just shrink...”

“Y’could if y’were in Wonderland...” Ringo insisted, a feverish light springing life back into his blue eyes. As the road manager continued to stare at him in utmost confusion, the drummer found himself regarding him with a disapproving shake of the head, “Johnny would be right disappointed in yer lack of imagination, Mal!” he admonished, “‘Aven’t ye’ read the book? There’s also a film if ye’ ‘aven’t quite mastered the art of reading.”

“I don’t understand what this has to do with anything...” Mal frowned. Again he looked at Paul as though he were every bit capable of deciphering the drummer’s cryptic speech.

Again Paul shrugged; this time out of sheer incredulity.

“Everything’s possible in Wonderland...” Ringo absently went on to explain, “No one ‘as t’get ill... Johnny and Georgie are perfectly fine, y’see... I didn’t watch Johnny deteriorate and collapse before me very eyes... and Georgie... I didn’t contribute at all to his collapse... I didn’t make him... I didn’t _make_ him...” He broke his words off abruptly and for a moment he looked as though he’d break down crying. Just when his spectators were certain he was about to do so, he impulsively lifted his head with a small smile to display. “I didn’t make him,” he repeated with an air of finality as though he was determined to guard everyone against any opposing thoughts they may or may not have.

Mal frowned at his projected claim, curiosity as well as apprehension on the subject beginning to seize him. “Ritch, you don’t believe you had anything to do with George’s collapse, do you?” he seriously pressed, stooping down in front of his seat so that he was at eye level with him.

“I don’t know what yer on about, Mal,” Ringo responded with a dismissive wave of the hand, “Here in Wonderland, no such thing ‘as happened! Georgie’s fine, y’see! Everything’s fine!”

“But... this _isn’t_ Wonderland, Rings...” Paul asserted.

Ringo turned to shoot him down with a glare, “It is too, Paul! It’s me very own Wonderland. I’m _Ringo_ in _Wonderland_.”

Both Paul and Mal exchanged frowns. Was he barmy? Had the drummer gone mad?

“It doesn’t much matter whether or not y’choose to believe,” Ringo went on; his tone growing startlingly more detached by the minute, “None of it matters when y’focus on the positives in life, really. In fact, it’s a beautiful day here in Wonderland. In the _real_ world, John’s practically on his death bed... and Georgie’s fast approaching his... but ‘ey... the sun’s shining now. The rains have passed and the sun is shining...”

Paul frowned, struggling to assess the pintsized musician’s mental state of being. “Rings...?” he hesitantly questioned, anxious eyes probing him, “Are you all right, love?”

“The sun is shining, Paulie...” Ringo repeated, his eyes slowly gravitating towards him, “Nothing can get to ye’ while the sun is shining. Not illness... not worry... not... nothing... Yer practically invisible— _invincible_...” He finished his statement with a grin for punctuation, but the action normally natural in materialization seemed oddly strained as though it didn’t quite fit his face.

Paul couldn’t keep from gaping at him. “But what on earth are ye’ on about, Ritchie?”

“You’ll see. Ye’ all will.”

Mal looked as though he was debating whether or not to draw closer to him. “Is he feverish or something?” he asked instead, shifting his perplexed gaze to Paul once more.

The bassist briefly considered the possibility before quickly acting upon it, cautiously moving to settle his hand against the drummer’s forehead, skillfully aiming beneath his thick golden brown bangs. He left it there for several seconds before gradually pulling it away, visibly perturbed by the yielded results. While his forehead was a bit clammy, it didn’t seem any warmer than usual. “I don’t think so,” he reported, his tone projecting his rapidly increasing confusion.

“When’s the last time he’s eaten? Had anything to drink?”

Paul shook his head in shame as the realization that he wasn’t entirely sure dawned on him. “I don’t rightly know.”

“I reckon he’s exhausted on top of it all...” Mal sighed, readily drawing his own conclusions from the bassist’s answer or lack thereof, “and add emotional, psychological trauma to the mix...” his voice trailed off, “It rather seems he’s gone and trapped himself in a state of shock.”

Paul couldn’t control the anxious feeling that willingly overtook him. “Will he be all right? Does he need to see a doctor? What can I do? What can _we_ do?”

Mal’s eyes widened at the barrage of questions thrown at him courtesy of the blatantly apprehensive bass player. “I suppose it would be wise to get some food and liquids into him as soon as possible... and then he should probably get to a proper bed where he can gain a decent night’s sleep.”

“‘M’not hungry,” Ringo sullenly mumbled. The feverish light had left his eyes once more, only to be replaced with gloom, “Eating won’t bring ‘em back...”

Paul frowned at the unexpected instance of sobriety his mate was suddenly exhibiting. What had happened to Wonderland where everything was fine? Rather than question him on it and risk further damage, he addressed the more pressing issue at hand. “Ye’ ‘ave to eat, Ritchie!” he stated imploringly.

“I don’t ‘ _ave_ to do _anything_ ,” the drummer sharply affirmed. He tiredly lifted his eyes to Mal, the change in angle revealing to the road manager for the first time the terribly dark circles that were permanently etched beneath them, “Can’t I jus’ go to bed? I’m right knackered and me ‘ead aches...”

Paul showered him with a look of concern before turning to Mal who nodded submissively. “Very well, Ritch.”

“Shouldn’t he eat something first?” Paul asked.

“He should sleep more than anything,” Mal sagely relayed back to him, “Just in case he’s beginning to come down with something, I’d rather him have the chance to sleep it off.”

“Coming down with something?” Paul echoed frantically, his stomach dropping at the frightening thought, “You don’t think—”

“I can assure you that it wouldn’t be what John and George have,” Mal quickly cut in, dismantling in a mere instant, the source of the young musician’s concerns, “He tested negatively for that. Remember? As far as I know, we all did.”

“What about Brian? Where _is_ Brian?” Paul questioned, realizing right then for the first time that the manager was nowhere to be seen and hadn’t been for quite some time now. He glanced about the large room, finding he couldn’t locate him anywhere.

“He’s fine,” Mal assured him, “If I know him, he’s somewhere out and about, more likely harassing a nurse for some answers.”

“I wonder if he knows about, Geo...” Paul wondered aloud, his voice dropping several octaves at the surfacing thought of his youngest mate.

“I’m sure he does by now...” Mal sighed, “It’s probably what’s been keeping him all this time.”

Paul nodded, “We should probably find him then. The longer we keep Rings from sleep, the less at ease my mind will be.”

“I don’t think that’s a concern any longer, Paul,” Mal responded quietly. He gestured towards the drummer, uncovering in the open, his freshly sleeping form.

“Blimey!” Paul whispered, a small smile of slight amusement gracing his own worn out features as he simultaneously allowed his eyes to follow Mal’s gaze. How Ringo had actually managed to fall asleep in such a contorted position was beyond him. His resulting smile was short-lived, however, as he meticulously allowed his eyes to further sweep the petite musician over. Not only did the poor thing look flat-out exhausted but he was pale all over. Completely washed out. In all honesty, he didn’t look to be quite the definition of healthy even in his sleep. But then again, he hadn’t exactly looked that great to begin with, especially since their initial confinement to the hospital. “He doesn’t look very well, does he, Mal?” he confirmed dejectedly, his worry-soaked thoughts finding a verbal outlet.

“Not entirely,” Mal agreed, concern of his own coloring the edges of his voice, “Do me a favor and help me keep an eye on him, would you?”

Paul immediately nodded, pledging his loyalty without hesitation. “Y’didn’t even ‘ave to ask, Mal.”

Mal briefly smiled his appreciation before finally rising to his feet. “Good.” He grew instantly serious before glancing to his watch. “Now let me see if I can track down Brian so we can get out of here at once.”

Admiration filled Paul’s heart as he stared up at him. Within a mere matter of seconds, the road manager had gone from protective to businesslike in a way that made it seem that he had simply flipped a switch somewhere within his brain.

Mal stared back down at him in confusion, completely oblivious to what was running through the bassist’s mind. “What, Paul? What is it?”

Paul shook his head, “‘S’nothing, really. It’s jus’ rather amazing how you always seem so put together! So on top of things.”

Mal dismissively waved off his words though not without taking the time to dwell appreciatively on their flattering qualities. “You’d be amazed how responsibility can drive a bloke to remain intact. It’s nothing you wouldn’t be able to do if you had to.”

The bassist in turn waved off his modesty, “Play it down all ye’ want. It doesn’t make it any less admirable.”

“Well thank you, Paul,” Mal replied softly, his words genuine. He glanced briefly to the still sleeping Ringo before shifting his tired gaze back to his watch. “I’d better chivvy along then. I suppose we’ll also need to find the time to ring Cynthia and Pattie, and the families of course...”

Any remaining traces of lightheartedness struggling to remain in the vicinity vanished instantly. “Right,” Paul quietly affirmed, “It’s only fair we let on to them by this point... especially with Johnny in ICU...” His eyes darkened suddenly, “Mimi too?” he asked.

“She is John’s aunt, is she not?” Mal inquired, gazing quizzically at the bassist, “Last I checked, that qualified as family.”

“Well yes,” Paul quickly responded, “but she won’t be happy we’ve allowed things to transcend this far without notifying her.”

Mal seemed to grow even more exhausted just thinking about the ordeal he was likely to be faced with. “Maybe so but it’s only fair that she knows of her nephew’s condition.”

“Just brace yerself for the onslaught then,” Paul warned, half seriously, half teasingly, “If I know Hurricane Mimi, which I do, she won’t go easy on you.” _Hurricane Mimi?_ he mentally echoed. _What on earth would make him say such a thing in the face of such a serious matter?_ _For a laugh_ , his brain clarified for him. _Find reason to laugh and the world won’t know you’re hurting_. Too bad it wasn’t funny. Too bad it bad the quip had gone wasted, never to meet its objective.

“I wouldn’t expect anything less of her,” Mal casually affirmed, drawing his words from prior experiences with the ‘no-nonsense’ woman Lennon referred to as his aunt. He narrowed his eyes on McCartney in a blatant mix of disapproval and amusement. “But just how should John take to ye’ speaking of his aunt in such a manner?” he challenged.

The bassist right then collapsed into a cheeky grin, “Well, for starters, he’d know better than to go around getting his knickers in a twist. I’m not one to mean things of the like. Mimi’s nothing like a hurricane. Quite pleasant, really. Was simply searching fer a lark if anything.” His face fell almost immediately in resulting embarrassment. “Sorry. It wasn’t entirely appropriate considering the subject matter.”

Mal chuckled in amusement. “You and Lennon are more alike than you’ll ever know,” he revealed truthfully. He stared at him a moment longer as though to confirm his beliefs before abruptly turning on his heels to leave, satisfaction having found him.

As the Beatles’ road manager walked off towards the double doors that would take him deeper into the hospital, Paul felt his face resultantly give way to the first genuine smile of the past several hours. He wasn’t sure why but Mal’s choice in wording had succeeded in warming his heart, somehow helping him to feel closer to his best mate despite the unfortunate distance that had been crudely wedged between them. He’d been in desperate need of a good heartwarming especially recently with all weighing endlessly on his mind. “Ta!” the bassist gratefully called after him.

Mal paused just outside the door and turned towards him with a brief nod of acknowledgement. Settling a hand on the door handle, he opened his mouth once more. “I’ll be sending the driver to collect you lads as soon as I’m able to get access to a telephone. Be ready to leave as soon as he arrives. Brian and I will join you shortly after. Understand?”

It was Paul’s turn to nod.

“Very well, then. Lay low and don’t draw any additional attention to yourselves. The press is on the prowl without a doubt,” Mal added a small assuring smile as though for the sole purpose of taking the ominous edge off his statement and before Paul could even blink; he was gone, having disappeared into the land of unknown.

Paul sighed pensively, watching as the very doors that so happened to guard the gateway to the missing half the band, slammed brutally shut behind him in a manner that seemed almost taunting in nature. ‘ _Come see your mates, I dare ya!_ ’ Paul could almost hear it’s mocking hinges squeak, ‘ _Come see them suffer... Come watch them die..._ ’ The bassist shook away the obnoxious exaggerated illusion before impulsively turning his attention back to his still remaining, soundly sleeping older mate, “Well, it looks like it’s just you and me, Rings...” he sighed wearily as though he were capable of hearing him. A part of him, a large part really, couldn’t help wishing he’d wake up. He was in desperate need of distraction. No one was better at providing such a thing than Ringo Starr.

Despite being guiltily aware that he was acting on selfish impulses, Paul deftly and tentatively extended a hand towards the drummer’s shoulder, eager to jostle him awake. As his eyes simultaneously swept over his face, however, he lost the desire altogether and swiftly pulled his hand back. Ringo looked much too adorable to be woken up so unceremoniously. He rather resembled an elf of sorts, complete with the rosy cheeks. The rosy flush. _Flush_. Paul frowned as this most recent of discoveries sunk in. Earlier, the drummer had been so pale; there hadn’t been a flush present. Definitely not like the one currently blinking him in the face. Frowning all the more, the bassist cautiously lifted his hand once again, this time using it to gently stroke the side of his mate’s exposed cheek. As contact was made, he held steady hoping to get as accurate a reading as possible. A small amount of warmth rose to greet him. Small but still present, nonetheless.

 _Brilliant_.

By the looks of it, Ringo was beginning to run some kind of a fever. Mysterious illness or not, it was the last thing Paul was in the mood to deal with. Bloody fucking hell. When would it end?

 


	32. You Can't Do That

“Oh, _now_ our wellbeing’s of top priority?” McCartney had viciously spat into the driving rain, his words like cutting knives digging into the skin of their unsuspecting recipient, “Why, Brian? Is it because tonight’s concert’s at stake?”

“I’ve canceled the concert,” Brian heard himself responding, the meekness of his own voice resonating in his head as the eye-opening conversation replayed presently within it for what may as well have been the thousandth time since initial transpiration.

“Oh?” Paul had done very little to hide his contempt towards him, those hazel eyes of his, glowing embers of fire as he’d defiantly stared him down, “ _Now_ the gloves come off. No choice, huh? And the tour?”

“In limbo until I hear of John’s condition.”

“Right. Wouldn’t think that you’d ‘ave the nerve to make such a big leap.”

“I’m doing the best I can, Paul,” Brian had tried his best to convey; as though such words should’ve had what it took to make everything all right. As though the minor verbal bandage should’ve had the power to fix the gaping hole in their tiny little world crudely ripped open by consequence. “You _must_ understand that.”

“But look where it’s gotten us so far,” the band’s bassist went on to coldly inform him, “John’s possibly fighting for his life and who knows what the bloody ‘ell will even come of George!”

The worst of the conversation remnants buzzed through his mind, and Brian shuddered reactively, the icy truth chilling him from the inside out like some alternate form of spontaneous combustion. It still hurt. After all this time, it still hurt. And it was bloody ridiculous how much it did. While time supposedly healed all wounds, it didn’t work nearly fast enough. While Paul had meant well; while he’d simply been in the habit of speaking his mind, it wasn’t enough to take the edge off. Fingers were pointed and he, Brian Epstein, was in the line of fire; chest bare as one by one guilt-seeking ammo found its way to his chest and into his heart. And why shouldn’t he serve as a target? After all, he _was_ responsible. He _was_ the one solely at fault. He _was_ the _cause_ of all this. Of _everything_. And now with all continuously falling apart around him, there wasn’t a thing he could do to turn it all around. He couldn’t backtrack. He couldn’t reverse time. He couldn’t opt out of his present existence and patch up the segments of the past in which everything had begun to go so horribly wrong. Had he been granted the chance, he would’ve changed everything. Done it all differently. Perhaps, he wouldn’t have pushed John so hard when he’d been feeling so poorly. Perhaps if he’d shown the slightest bit of empathy, he wouldn’t have ended up falling so ill. And then maybe in turn, George wouldn’t have succumbed to the same fate either. But second chances didn’t exist. Life wasn’t some movie. What was done was done.

And it would seem that karma was now out to get him. As expected, it was out to punish him for the monster he had unwittingly created. The ugly monster, disguised as everything that had inadvertently been allowed to spin out of control at his stupid, stubborn hand; his own _cruel_ taskmaster hands that had been driven by his foolhardy determination to persevere. To carry on through thick and thin. To let nothing get in the way of his band. His creation. The Beatles and their destined call to fame. The insensitive monster created by his undying will to be the very leader he’d truly believed deep within his heart that the Beatles not only wanted but most definitely needed. Evidently, his judgment had lacked precision to begin with. Clearly something, more so _everything_ had gotten lost in translation. If it hadn’t, all consequences could’ve easily been avoided. Instead…

_“…John’s possibly fighting for his life and who knows what the bloody ‘ell will even come of George!”_

Paul’s words would follow him everywhere.

Perhaps, if Brian had simply _listened_ to the bassist’s endless list of heartfelt concerns rather than his own demanding ones, perhaps if he’d only taken the time to _listen_ to Ringo’s plaintive reasoning and even Mal’s for that matter… there was a chance, not a great one, but still a chance nonetheless, that things might’ve turned out differently. For the better. And then maybe they wouldn’t be linked to some waiting room of some hospital of some country that wasn’t home.

This… virus… this thing, whatever it was, there was a small chance it might’ve been easily treatable in its earlier stages had it not been allowed the time to take hold and steadily worsen. But unfortunately the manager would never know for sure. None of them would _ever_ know for sure. Not now. It was too _late_ now. Brian had been flying far too high at the wrongest of times refusing to be weighed down by it all. And as a result, he’d missed out on logic entirely.

Looking back, all it would’ve taken were a few canceled shows while he sought professional medical attention from a worthy hospital like should’ve been priority in the first place. Now in the aftermath, it all seemed so painfully _simple_. So the Beatles wouldn’t have been able to perform while John was on the mend, so what? Worse things have happened at sea. At least there could’ve been some kind of structured chance that all of what was happening could’ve been subject to much better control than what currently lay in place. Maybe in all that time that John was getting sicker, he could’ve been getting better. And maybe with him in the hospital, George wouldn’t have been in close quarters with him destined to fall to the same fate. Maybe. But again, he’d never know. How unfortunate that it was too late. Bloody hell… It was entirely his fault, wasn’t it? Him and his stupid, stubborn pride. Because now…

_“…John’s possibly fighting for his life and who knows what the bloody ‘ell will even come of George!”_

Pride was a complicated thing and resulting stubbornness; even more a complicated matter. Complicated like everything most often was. Complicated like the world at its worst. Eppy shook his head in disgust. When had it all started going wrong? And why had he ever let it come down to this?

Perhaps, it had all begun with that doctor. The band had been everything but happy with his work from the get go… and what had he, as manager, chosen to do about it at their first sign of dissatisfaction? Nothing. Not a thing in all his selfish glory. Unfortunately, accompanying memories were just as vivid as the initial making of them.

“How’s ‘e look, doctor?” he remembered nervously asking, following John’s very first appointment at the onset of his initial downfall.

“His throat’s showing some minor irritation,” the doctor had responded without even the slightest bit of sympathy, “But it’s nothing that a few lozenges can’t help to soothe.” He’d then proceeded to reach into his medicine bag for a thermometer before turning to face John, “Hold this under your tongue, Mr. Lennon, if you will.”

And Eppy had watched with only a slight bit of discomfort as John submissively obeyed, doing exactly what was asked of him. The manager should’ve known then that it was a surefire sign of rapid deterioration. John was a lot of things...but willingly obedient to a pompous, undeserving bastard wasn’t one of them. “101.7,” the doctor had flippantly revealed with an irrational lack of concern despite the severity of the drastically elevated temperature he’d just uncovered.

Eppy blatantly remembered thinking that to be absurd on the spot. It had taken everything within him to keep from entering panic mode. From that moment on, he’d been foolishly desperate. Desperate to comply with anything it would take to get his rhythm guitarist back up to par. Even if it meant listening to that quack of a doctor that clearly had no real interest in neither John nor the rest of the Beatles.

“I’d like to prescribe some fever-reducers,” the doctor had gone on to announce, taking his attention from John and applying it solely to him, “If he starts taking them now, he should be okay by tonight.”

It had seemed too good to be true even then. But desperate as he’d been, Brian had been willing to try anything.

“There’s not much I can do for the cold he’s developing as we haven’t the technology to properly eliminate viruses. He’ll simply have to consume plenty of fluids, rest when he can, and let the illness run its course. Lucky for him, the strain seems a bit mild in my eyes.”

Paul from the start had been a bit more skeptical, a bit more suspicious of everything he’d dared to speak. Rightfully so at that. “But how can ye’ be sure a cold is all it is?” he’d demanded, “Haven’t you any tests to run? He’s got a 102 degree fever fer crying out loud!”

“I’m one physician, not a full hospital,” the doctor had snapped, wasting no time in berating him like he’d been no more to him than an uneducated whelp, “This is _my_ diagnosis to give! I’m not sure how things work in so-called Great Britain but last I checked; here in _America_ , physicians, not musicians are allowed to diagnose.”

Blinkered bigotry. That should’ve been the means to an end right then and there. Instead Epstein had let the insufferable bastard walk all over them. He’d let them talk down to his band as though they’d been every bit deserving of such treatment. Worse, he’d even given poor, sick John a scolding when the outspoken rhythm guitarist had only been standing up for what he truly believed in. Rightfully so, as well. Even in his feverish state, the rhythm guitarist had had more of a sense of what was right and wrong than Brian, himself, had even tried to exhibit throughout the entire endeavor. How could he have allowed himself to be so blinded? And to make matters worse even, he’d voluntarily allowed his improper behavior to carry on even further into the day. Such a distasteful display, really.

“Among these are some uppers,” he remembered explaining to John as he handed him his medication, “Should be enough to get you through the night.”

Uppers. He couldn’t believe he’d even thought that to be enough. Lennon had been blatantly out of it by that point. Much too out of it for uppers to even have been a factor. And here he was, Brian Epstein ‘trusted manager’ doling them out like golden keys to the universe. As though they were a permanent fix-all. John had looked absolutely god-awful too. Sicker than Brian had ever seen him. Still, he’d refused to believe anything was truly out of the ordinary, choosing to remain trapped in the land of oblivion.

And when the delirium had next taken over, that should’ve been everything enough to shatter the delusion he’d created for himself. And John, as result, should’ve been hospitalized. Instead, what did he end up doing? He’d called in that quack of a doctor again for a _second_ time to have him fill their heads up with additional nonsense. Nonsense that Brian had been so eager to believe because he’d wanted more than anything for things to smoothen out and improve. He’d wanted so much for things to finally start working in his favor that he’d been willing to risk it all just to ensure that the show would in fact, go on. That nothing could stop the Beatles. In his eyes then, that was the quickest route to the title of manager greats. What he’d failed to realize was that he’d somehow gotten sidetracked, ending up not as a great manager but a master slave-driver who’d unwittingly succeeded in driving his entire band into the ground. And now serving as the worst of consequences, half his band was forced to pay in a way that he’d never wish on his worst of enemies.

_“…John’s possibly fighting for his life and who knows what the bloody ‘ell will even come of George!”_

George… he should’ve known that he’d been coming down with John’s illness from the start. The youngest member of the Beatles was so susceptible to such things that necessary precautions should’ve been taken. He’d failed there too. Brian presently brought a hand to his face and scrubbed at his tired eyes. He’d do anything to take both their places right now. For all he knew, he was most deserving. _He_ had earned a place in one of those terrible hospital beds. Not George. Not John.

“Mr. Epstein, are you all right?” a male voice faded gradually into the endless chaos that was his mind.

Brian blinked and stared straight ahead, a blond man in doctoral attire clarifying before his tired eyes. Oh right. Dr. …something or other. He’d been somewhere in the middle of conversing with him. And he’d just been informed about… George’s… misfortunes… Regrettably… What an unexpected sucker punch that had been. Strange how it now seemed like it had all taken place hours ago, rather than… he glanced at his watch… minutes. The Beatles’ manager forced a smile, nonetheless, the halfhearted gesture falling short of his eyes. “Yes, I’m fine.”

“Is there anyone you need to call at this time in regards to Mr. Lennon and Mr. Harrison? Maybe you should think of calling in their families.”

Family… Brian heaved a tired sigh… and just how was he supposed to explain to them what he’d done to their loved ones? Surely they’d never trust him with them again… And the Beatles as a result may as well cease to exist! Abruptly, Brian brought the initial thought to an end, mentally scolded himself for allowing the manager side of him reign of his thoughts. And at such times! How inappropriate of him! It was no wonder Paul had spoken to him the way he had earlier. Never mind the Beatles. The Beatles could wait. The _band_ could wait. It was time to focus solely on John and George and what was best for them as individual human beings. They _were_ individual after all.

“Mr. Epstein?” the doctor interrupted briskly, unknowingly cutting into his scattered thoughts.

Brian looked up again, his gaze having dropped to the linoleum floor at some point within the past moment. It was so pristine, the floor; in all its pure-white glory. If he concentrated hard enough, he could almost forget where he was. _Almost_. The manager blinked abruptly and allowed the doctor to fall back into focus. “Y-yes, just give me a moment!” he anxiously implored, the nature of his statement blaring out for all to perceive, just how unsettled he was about things. It was rather odd, really. He was usually more composed in professional situations of the like.

The doctor nodded once and took a step back out of sheer respect. “Yes, as you wish,” he responded automatically, his professionalism remaining intact. “But I must advise you, the sooner you make this decision the better.”

Had it been in his disposition to do so; had his upbringing been different, Brian would’ve given the man a piece of his mind. But that wouldn’t have helped matters in the least bit. He’d just have to settle with the known fact that hospitals were often cold, clinical places… and at times that included their staff.

Brian sighed, his mind shifting into overdrive for what may as well as been the millionth time within the past five minutes alone. Who was he to notify? Who was he to ring? Who had the right to know what was going on?

Perhaps if he took the time to think and break it all down into smaller bits.

…In regards to John… he would surely have to alert his wife Cynthia Lennon… and of course, his aunt Mimi Smith…

Brian’s heart quivered apprehensively at the mere thought of having to ring John’s aunt. He knew for a fact that not only would she be hard to inform of her nephew’s unstructured decline, but she’d have a few choice words for him as well. It had taken everything in the astute woman to trust John in his care in the first place and Brian was certain she had never fully made the commitment either. Still she had chosen to give him the benefit of the doubt and now… he’d have to burden her with… The manager allowed the depressing thought to slip away, his bottom lids filling with a wetness he couldn’t quite control. To inform anyone that their loved one was in hospital struggling to hold on to dear life was a feat that no one was ever truly equipped for. Mimi’s reaction alone to such dismal news could quite possibly be everything enough to kill him, even _through_ the telephone. It was probably wise he ring Cynthia first that way if Mimi did somehow manage to get her hands around his neck, she’d have at least received the news beforehand.

And Cyn… Sweet Cyn would be no easier to notify. Especially since the dedicated blonde already had her hands filled to the brim with Julian. He could imagine her reaction already. Hearing as she collapsed upon herself in a fit of tears, no one to hug her or make her feel better about things. The mere thought alone made Brian’s heart want to break in two. A lone resulting tear trailed down his left cheek, threatening to set forth the dam that held his remaining emotions in check.

…He’d have to do his best to convince her; both her and Mimi, that John would in fact, be all right. That he was fighting with every ounce of his very being.

And if he’d managed to survive that whole ordeal, he’d ring George’s family next. George for the time being was in better shape than John. Possibly because he’d been hospitalized in a more timely fashion. Still, informing George’s loved ones wouldn’t be any easier than notifying the loved ones of John’s.

In regards to George, Epstein would have to ring both his parents; …his father Harold and his mother Louise… and in one way or another, find a way to tell them about the youngest of their four offspring. Where would he even start there? And in addition, he couldn’t forget to fit Pattie Boyd- his significant other into the equation.

Brian sighed… how could he move forth with this when he was the sole cause of all of it? How could he be the one to bear the bad news? Should he leave it to Mal? Could Mal better handle this?

‘ _Don’t be bloody daft, Brian! It’s your responsibility_ ,’ a tiny voice in the back of his mind asserted. ‘ _It’s the least you can do._ ’

The manager nodded after allowing himself a moment more to fully analyzing what it was he was up against. And then he looked up, his tear-blurred eyes rising to the level of the doctor once more. “I’m ready,” he boldly told him; in some way managing to keep his voice from breaking mid-statement, “I’ll do it. Show me to a telephone at once before I lose my nerve. Please!” he added, so as not to come off rudely.

After all, what did he have to lose? The end result was bound to be terrible and emotionally draining regardless of whether or not he chose to inform the families of John and George himself or leave it for Mal to tackle. To sum it all up, he was damned if he did, damned if he didn’t. He’d brought this on. All he could hope was that, he as the messenger, wouldn’t end up deader than he already was on the inside.


	33. I Need You

“And they lived happily ever after… the end.”

Paul smiled to himself as he furtively looked on from across the room. What he’d perceived to be a young girl, a mere tot rather, sat cozily and lovingly wrapped up in the arms of her grandpa; her bright and hopeful blue eyes wide in the ever-present aftermath of a compelling, magical tale well told. The bassist had heard the entire story from beginning to end. And he’d seen the priceless reactions of the animated little girl as she’d clung to every last word; fantasizing it all in that creative little mind of hers. Time found her to be at that whimsical age, often ruled by utmost innocence. That age where magic existed. Where rainbows were slides and clouds were castles of a kingdom far, far away. Where happy beginnings and happy endings were potentially all there were to life. Simpler times. When a child felt safe, protected, and loved. Paul remembered that mindset quite well… It had seemed to exist well into his early teens, abruptly ceasing to exist when he’d first learned the fate of his mum… The world became much too real as a result and just like that, a world full of vibrant color had faded to muted greys, accented only on occasion by the blackest blacks and the dullest whites.

Frowning now at the uncovered memory, Paul gave his head a slight shake, rejecting and letting the wandering thoughts gone bitter draw to an end before any sadness attached could fully grab hold. Truthfully, there’d been enough talk about the frailty of life lately to last him well into next year. He needn’t add to it. He needn’t think about his mum’s demise in a hospital while two of his best mates were— _Bloody hell_ … Why couldn’t he stop? _Just stop already! Stop thinking!_

The cloud of contemplation lifted, leaving behind, as it would, a reality much too bare and real in its wake. It suddenly occurred to the bassist that every single person that surrounding him, little girl included; was, more or less, there because of a loved one. It was intriguing what one could fail to take notice of when their very own world was falling down all about them. It was as though for a period of time, not one soul existed outside whatever distressing matters were presenting to one’s self. And they’d simply shut off; hearing what they wanted to hear and seeing what they wanted to see. And just like that, time ceased to any longer be a factor. Disaster would do that to a person. And the hindered mind, would do whatever it could to adjust whether dulling the senses or shutting down completely…

The waiting room doors swung open without warning drawing Paul’s complete attention at once, and a tall, distinguished, doctoral looking man entered; his eyes urgently seeking out a particular family of interest. Having sought them out in a matter of seconds, he crossed the room to meet them with whatever updates he may hold. At that point, Paul looked away, leaving the family to their private matters regarding their own fate. Whatever it was going on with them, he hoped it would turn out for the best. Surely, the unfeeling universe could allow that much. _Surely_ , it had _some_ positive tricks up its sleeve. When life seemed keen on taking turns for the worst, as it often would, didn’t it make sense for the good to eventually balance out the bad? Paul liked to think so. It was sort of like when he’d lost his mum… Less than a year later, he’d met John. Their union had been a stepping stone leading to the official birth of the Beatles and the rest was history. A classic example, in his utmost opinion, of the good balancing out the bad. There was some sort of philosophy attached to such a belief. Yin and yang and all that… A rather comforting concept… for the most part…

_Unless_ … in this instance, the bad was intent on balancing out the good… The good being, what the band had as a whole, the bad being… the untimely hospitalization of half the band at the hand of some rogue virus… Their resulting brush with death… Their— Paul frowned prominently. _Christ… would someone have to die for this so-called balance?_ The bassist sighed defeatedly. Once again, as though he’d merely invited it to do so, his mind was at it again, freely wandering the abyss of his deepest, darkest fears.

How long before he’d gain news on John and George’s conditions, anyroad? Maybe some actually news would set him straight. But what would the news consist of? Were Johnny and Geo okay? Would they _be_ okay? Would they even make it through the night? _Fucking hell…_ He’d be mad as a hatter before he’d even find out. An unexpected tear trailed down his left cheek. Frantically, the bassist swiped at it, refusing to fall victim to it. _Blimey_. How could everything have come down to this? How had every-bloody-thing gone so far to shite? No. _Shite_ was an understatement. Everything had gone _beyond_ shite. Whatever the bloody, fucking hell _that_ was.

Eager to distract himself, the bass player began tapping a finger rhythmically on the arm of his chair. He was quickly becoming restless, he realized. And all the sadness churned up by all his worries were getting harder to keep at bay. Keeping to himself at such a crucial time, as it would, was only beginning to mess with him. And Ringo wasn’t even awake to help matters any. He wished he’d had his beloved Hofner. The bass guitar would always come through in helping to ease his mind and pass time. Sometimes, it was the closest he could get to the concept of magic. It was _his_ ticket into that world coveted by the little girl across his room. His very own magic carpet.

Paul tapped idly on the arm of his chair some more before catching suddenly some pronounced movement out of the corner of his eye. Confused, not to mention startled, he turned to discover that not only had the afore-thought of drummer awoken but he was now struggling to unfold his skillfully contorted body so he could sit up. Bloody hell, had the older Beatle gone psychic? Had he heard his distress?

“Rings, I thought y’were soundly sleeping!” Paul choked out in surprise before rising to help the floundering drummer untangle himself.

“No such thing, love,” Ringo responded, his voice partially clogged with the little bit of sleep he’d managed to get hold of. He succeeded finally with the help of Paul and stretched his limbs out in all directions before repositioning himself comfortably within his seat. While it was evident he seemed much more alert and in tune with his environment this time around, the revelation did nothing to disguise the fact that he still looked absolutely dreadful. “So I take it, we’re heading back to the hotel?” the drummer croaked after a while. “Thought I heard Mal talking... then again, I might’ve been dreaming...”

“You weren’t,” Paul confirmed. He stifled a yawn, “We’re headed back. And perhaps, rightfully so...” He paused, taking time to thoroughly look his older mate over, “How’re ye’ feeling?”

“Bloody knackered...” Ringo sighed lethargically.

“At least yer not on about Wonderland any longer,” Paul responded cautiously, “You were starting to frighten me a bit!”

“Wonderland?” Ringo echoed, “What do y’mean?”

“You kept talking about how you were in Wonderland... and how you were rightfully separated from all things depressing... like Johnny and Geo...”

Ringo furrowed his brows in confusion, “I did?”

“Y’don’t remember?”

The drummer shook his head.

“Maybe y’ _were_ in shock, then,” Paul frowned, “Mal was right. Y’sure y’feel okay?”

Ringo shrugged, “Aside from this headache... and being knackered... I think so...”

Paul nodded in agreement, willingly taking his word for it though not without ample skepticism. “I hope so.”

Ringo wearily ran a hand through his hair, heaving a quavering sigh from deep within him, “I might feel a bit better after a bath, as well...” he added.

“I’m right there with you...” Paul chuckled. He grabbed hold of his shirt collar and lifted it to his nose, sniffing at it, “I’m right certain me scent is starting to take on a life of its own.”

Ringo stared at him momentarily before decisively mirroring his actions, “Actually, I think that’s me yer smelling,” he broadcasted with a brief but hearty laugh. He winced fleetingly as an unexpected flicker of pain dug into the front of his skull, all smiles subsequently dropping from his face in the aftermath. “But yer right…” He paused, taking a moment to rub circles into his forehead. “I’m pretty knackered meself and… me ‘ead’s really starting to ache something awful.”

“Perhaps Mal has some painkillers with yer name on it,” Paul relayed, studying him with even more concern than before.

Ringo shrugged. “Maybe... but between Johnny and George, it wouldn’t surprise me if we’ve run out.” He gazed past Paul, his eyes locking on the double doors of the waiting room exit. “Isn’t that Alf?”

“Our _driver_?” Paul asked.

“Were ye’ expecting any other Alfs?” Ringo deadpanned with a sardonic roll of the eyes.

“You could’ve just said yes,” Paul muttered, not quite in favor of having fun poked at him especially in a sarcastic fashion. Especially when it was everything Lennon would’ve done and probably would’ve even said. He fought back another encroaching tear wanting to fall at the revelation and rose to his feet.

Ringo followed suit, rising to his own feet with a low groan. His movements were less graceful, however, and he ended up stumbling slightly before falling back into his seat as a head rush chose that very moment to descend upon him.

Paul frowned at this, “You all right, Rings?

“Got up too fast,” Ringo responded nonchalantly, some truth planted in the statement, “That and I ‘aven’t really eaten today…”

“Well y’should probably find the time to eat, then,” Paul instructed, extending a hand down to the drummer in a premade attempt to get him up and standing.

Ringo tiredly nodded his agreement and made the effort to grab at it, “I wanna hold yer haaand…” he sang softly, playfully.

With a chuckle, Paul tightened his grip around the drummer’s hand and yanked him back to his feet. “Y’sure you’re all right?” he demanded skeptically, once he was standing on his own, “Y’seem rather pale still…”

Ringo nodded once more, this time having to grab a nearby wall for support. Standing, even with help had left him strangely winded. “‘M’fine, Paul… prolly jus’ feeling a bit off because I’m so bloody knackered and hungry…”

Paul shook his head in disagreement, “No… we’ve been over this…” Without warning, he laid the back of his hand across his older mate’s forehead. The results nearly caused his heart to jackhammer out from his chest.

“What, Paul? What is it?” Ringo asked, picking up on his bout of concern. He made a show of attempting to gauge his own temperature, jokingly feeling his own face.

“Ritchie…” Paul mumbled slowly, worriedly, “You’re still warm…”

Ringo arched an eyebrow, “ _Still_? What are ye’ on about; _still_?”

“I checked earlier while you slept. You were a bit warm then and yer still warm now.  I think you’ve got a bit of a temperature…” They couldn’t seem to catch a break! _Why_ couldn’t they catch a bleedin’ break already??!

“They cleared me free of the virus so it can’t be that,” Ringo protested, cutting unwittingly into Paul’s frantic thoughts.

“How do y’know it can’t still be that?” Paul challenged, narrowing his eyes upon him.

Ringo grinned, “Because, Paulie… in order to have a virus, it has to be present within yer body! Common sense, really…” he added teasingly.

Paul rolled his eyes, completely overlooking his mood-lightening humor. “Well, ‘m’not taking any chances!” he adamantly informed him, “I’m finding you a doctor and yer getting yerself retested!”

“Don’t I ‘ave a say in this?” Ringo whined. The test had been hell the first time around. Never mind actually going through it again, “I ‘ave a weak immune system! I was bound to come down with the George’s lurgy eventually!”

“And what if it’s not the lurgy?” Paul retorted.

“And what if it is?” Ringo calmly threw back, “Geo _did_ ‘ave it prior to this… whatever it is they’re calling it… He could’ve passed it on t’me sometime last week and it’s jus’ catching up t’me now!”

“Yeah?” Paul countered, “Well John had thought he’d caught it as well… initially. And where is he now?”

“Paul, listen to me. I’m. Fine. Now let’s go home. Alf and Ira await.”

“Home is miles away, Rings...” Paul sighed.

“Right. Let’s jus’ go, then.”

“Fine.” Paul reluctantly relented. As they began to cross the room, the bassist found himself turning back briefly to take in those still confined to the waiting room. Stopping momentarily, he closed his eyes and silently wished them all the best of luck. No one deserved to be there. No matter who they were. He really hoped it would be smooth sailing from here on out. For John, for George, for Ringo, for _everyone_. He _especially_ hoped he’d be able to see his mates again.

* * *

Ringo was asleep again, the second they were situated in the car. Whatever was going wrong with him, Paul hoped he would be able to sleep it off. It was bad enough with John and George in the hospital. If he were to add Ringo to that list, he didn’t know what he’d do. It might be everything enough to push him over the edge of the steepest cliff, never to be seen again.

He wondered vaguely where Eppy and Mal were. He just wanted to get home. To sleep. To forget about reality for a while. As long as they were MIA, however, they were all forced to wait in the parking lot, confined to the car for their very own safety. There was nothing left to do but stare out the window at an untouchable world.

It had stopped raining at least; the earlier storm having moved on, leaving behind a heavy fog set on nothing short of polluting the land with its raw and sullen grip. It swirled about almost hauntingly, bathing the entire outside world in a dreamlike… haze. Through it all, the hospital looked even larger and even more ominous in his line of vision as it loomed at a safe distance, its cold and clinical essence seemingly cut off from reach. While Paul had been somewhat happy to have been escorted off its premises, he couldn’t help feeling that the whole act of departure was bittersweet. Sure he was closer to getting the sleep he so desperately craved in a bed he so desperately needed, but if it meant leaving half their band behind, well… it didn’t feel entirely right. Even if it was logical, as Mal had attempted to help them see.

“Well, at least they have each other,” the bass player assured himself aloud in high hopes of helping to alleviate some of his feelings of guilt and worry. Sure they were stuck in some foreign hospital in the middle of a country that was far from home but… at least they had each other… even if they didn’t know it. He supposed it could’ve been much worse had life allowed it. John and George could’ve been separated. The Beatles could have no idea where they were even being kept. One or both of them could be dead. The list was infinite.

With a sigh, Paul guided his gaze away from the window and swung it over to Ringo, taking him in once more. The drummer had fallen asleep upon entering the car so quickly, it had actually frightened him. And suddenly as a direct result, he’d been one with the past. Flashbacks of John. Flashbacks of George. All triggered at the drop of a hat. It seemed a bit overkill too, even to the mind of the bass player. After all, it was merely possible that the older Beatle was simply just rundown and tired. Stripped now of adrenaline and shock, the drummer’s body longed for recovery and repair. Paul wanted so hard to believe this as it was too happening to him right then, but the events of the past few days, the events of even a few hours ago wouldn’t let him. He couldn’t for the life of him, get past watching John deteriorate in a matter of 48 hours. He couldn’t get past George falling to the same fate. And he couldn’t help himself. It was a real possibility that when it was all said and done… If things were ever allowed to return to normal, he’d end up worrying an incessant amount if any of his mates were to so much as sneeze. It was life-changing, what they were going through. It was unreal. Practically surreal.

The sound of a car door opening drew his attention, and disturbed by it, McCartney turned just in time to catch Brian sliding into the front seat. On the window directly in front of his face, Mal tapped slightly as some kind of notification before pulling open the attached door. “Looks like I’m riding in the back with you boys!” he announced with weak joviality.

Paul tried to smile as he scooted himself over, “Welcome, Mal!” he mumbled, somewhat surprised at how exhausted he sounded.

Mal frowned worriedly at him. “Why don’t you try and get some sleep, Paul,” he went on to suggest, “I’ll even switch seats with you so you have the window as support.”

Blinking blearily at him, Paul nodded. As he’d formulated in regards to Ringo, his own adrenaline was waning fast. And riding its coattails was the sleep he craved. He watched lazily as Mal exited the car once more before mimicking his actions. Then Mal scooted in closer to Ringo who’d awaken in the midst of all the commotion, while Paul took up his remaining side.

“Are we settled then?” Brian tiredly asked from the front seat.

“I believe so,” Mal quickly responded, “Let’s go shall we?”

“Home?” Paul sleepily murmured as the car proceeded to pull away from the curb. How he’d love for them to go home. To Liverpool. Where they belonged.

Mal chuckled softly, “Not quite, Paul. But as close to home as we can get given the circumstances.” He cupped the bassist affectionately on the shoulder.

The strong touch waking him up slightly, Paul sat up once more and scrubbed at one eye, “Are John and George… Are they all right?”

“They are for the moment,” Brian heavily sighed, “But John… he’s in serious condition. There’s a very real chance he might not make it through the night… they tell me…”

And all at once, Paul was wide awake, increasing adrenaline rocketing through him with all the gusto of a tsunami. “What are we doing leaving him, then?!!” he shouted, his voice wild, frantic, “H-he needs us!! H-he needs _me_!! He’s _too_ young… He _can’t_ die! He _can’t_ leave… me!! I…” his voice broke, “I- _I_ need _him_ …”

“He’s not going _anywhere_ , Paul,” Mal quickly did his best to assure him, attempting to grab both of his shoulders for the sake of holding him still as he talked him down, “Our Lennon’s much too stubborn for that! He’s made it too far; he wouldn’t dare turn his back on you now! On _us_.”

“He’s right, y’know!” Ringo optimistically offered despite the brunt of the news having shaken him up something awful. Crying, however, had been out of question for him despite how hard the tears wanted to flow. Paul was crying; terribly shaken from the inside out. Practically at the point of no return. Ringo struggled for control. Struggled to hold it together for the bass player’s sake. “Remember what I told ye’ earlier?” he ventured, his worn voice taking on a casual aspect.

Frenetic and beside himself, Paul shook his head.

“I told y’that miracles happen. And they do, Paul. All the fuckin’ time.”

“But… I can’t take this…” McCartney whimpered desolately, shaking and crying. Shaking and crying, “Christ, I’m only one person and… I jus’ I can’t do this…”

“Y’can and y’will, Macca,” Ringo told him, unsure of where it was such an order was even coming from. His ragged mind was barely holding itself together, how could he even begin to utter such demands? “It’s all right to be scared,” his mouth carried on as though a separate entity from the rest of his body, “But y’must know that in the end, everything will turn out fer the best. Everything will turn out as it should. In a few days’ time when they get around t’releasing Johnny… and Geo, you’ll see…”

“I wanna see now, Ring!” McCartney mumbled, his words almost completely obscured by plaintive sobs, “I wanna see _now_ that they’re okay! Don’t y’think I should get a happy ever after? Don’t y’think I deserve it??!!”

“Well everyone should—”

“ _Why’s_ the other half of me bleedin’ soul dying, then?!!” the bassist incoherently sobbed, inadvertently interrupting Ringo’s words, “What’s Brian on about, speaking such bollocks of ‘im??! They took me mum away and now they’ll take Johnny! _My_ John. _Beautiful_ John…”

Looking on as the bassist spiraled out of control at the hand of reality-altering shock, a servant to his overflowing emotions; the heavy hearts of both Ringo and Mal alike, fell. Broke. Shattered.

“Jus’ let me see that John’s okay! It’s all I want…” McCartney sniveled.

“We _can’t_ turn back now,” Ringo flatly affirmed, “Not until tomorrow, anyroad. And until we’re able to, we need to have hope, Paul!” He’d taken a backseat to his mouth now and was letting it take full control. “Y’have to believe that things will get better with time! Because if we can’t hope fer the better… if we refuse to believe… what else is there left fer us to do? Hope’s the only thing left in Pandora’s box, y’know.”

And Mal looked on from between the remaining half of the Beatles, silently applauding Ringo for such heart-felt words. “Lovely…” he whispered, tears clouding his own eyes, “Just wonderful, Ritch…”

Sitting rigid, tears still flowing, Paul couldn’t find it within himself to even nod. So Ringo tried again, “Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul… and sings the tune without the words… and never stops at all!” He brightened, visibly pleased at the quote cleverly sought out on the spot, “That is… unless y’smother it, y’know…” he added cheekily. He paused for a moment, allowing time for an impish grin reminiscent of Lennon’s to find his face, “Do y’want to be forever known as a smotherer of all hopes and dreams, James Paul McCartney?” No. he wasn’t a smother. Not Paul… “ _Are_ you a hopes and dream smotherer, Paulie?” he prodded again, “Are ye’?”

Paul hid his face, clearly struggling to fend off a teary grin of his own.

“Well, are ye’?” Ringo stubbornly prodded, “I know yer not. It’s not in yer nature. It jus’ breaks me heart that y’seem to ‘ave given up already. That y’don’t see much hope in the recovery of our mates…”

“I never said—”

“Then why are y’crying, Paul?” the drummer interjected, ‘Y’have to keep believing that things will get better no matter what fate seems to be indicating. It’s the only way to get by. Promise me you’ll at least try? ‘S’all we have. ‘S’all we can do until we truly know otherwise.”

Paul heaved a sigh that to his dismay fell just short of the displeasure he was hoping to emanate.

“ _Promise_?” Ringo repeated, showing to the bassist’s additional annoyance, that he wasn’t about to let up anytime soon.

The water-logged smile finally won out despite Paul’s wishes to hide it. “If I do, will it shut ye’ up?” he asked.

“Maybe… most likely not,” Ringo joked, “Is thatta yes, McCartney?”

“Fine.”

“Good.”

Brief silence ensued.

“Cor, and how our _‘beautiful John’_ would take to yer crying over him,” Ringo piped up, breaking all traces of quietude in the form of a quip.

“Tell him and I’ll cripple yer,” Paul warned, “Feed his ego, y’will with that sort of rubbish.”

Ringo laughed.

“I wasn’t done earlier y’know,” Paul professed right then, wiping frantically at tear-stained cheeks.

“What d’ye’ mean?” Ringo asked.

“When I agreed t’keep a positive outlook, I meant that I’d keep it _if_ y’do but one thing fer me,” the bass player cunningly informed him.

“What’s that?” Ringo warily asked, though deep inside, he was certain he already knew.

“Promise me you’ll go—”

“And get tested again,” Ringo supplied knowingly with a wearied sigh. He rolled his tired eyes, “Blimey, yer not gonna rest until I decide to do so, are ye’?”

“No. So bloody get used to the idea, then,” Paul asserted.

“Fine. First thing tomorrow.”

“I’m sure he’s fine, Paul,” Mal put in, decisively coming to the drummer’s rescue. “He had the test just today and frankly I don’t think they lie.”

Ringo resignedly shook his head in spite of the roadie’s efforts. “I’ll do it, anyroad, Mal. When they learn of me symptoms, they’ll only want it then.” He shuddered inwardly as he remembered the size of the needle they’d injected into him. He’d have to endure such a hellish thing not once but twice. Fucking hell.

Mal turned to the back of Eppy’s head. “Are you all right with this, Brian?” he asked of him.

“One can never be too careful nowadays,” was Brian’s unnervingly quiet and hollow response.

The car fell into silence, and no more was said.


	34. Across the Universe

His eyes were closed but he could see all in his departure. And his eyesight was better than ever. Better now than it had _ever_ been. He could see every last detail of the room he’d resided in; right down to the tiniest, most delicate crack located in only a few select tiles of the linoleum floor below him. He could make out the fine detail of the state-of-the-art equipment he’d been diligently hooked up to. He was more than aware of the utter chaos; the growing downward spiral of insanity that had surrounded him for hours…possibly even days. He could read with ease, the panic-stricken faces of the medical personnel as they fussed over his limp body as though they had all the power in the world… the universe to change fate. His body. He could see that too, even from a distance; this strange distance that had seemingly wedged itself between him and the human vessel he no longer seemed to be a part of. He could watch himself as though he was merely on the set of the telly and he was the star of some foreign, morbid film; laying frozen upon his hospital bed, his face deathly pale and unmoving; unregistering of the endless, pointless calamity that surrounded him. He could register it all, unreality and everything of the like… The surrealism of it all. And it rendered him numb. Every single aspect of it.

Normally, one couldn’t begin to handle such an unnatural revelation such as one’s own death. One couldn’t even _begin_ to form a real understanding. Life and death… Life… death… joined together simply by the inevitable… fate… the unavoidable…the way of the world… the universe. No one. Not even John Lennon.

Inevitably, he was dying. Fulfilling destiny like many before him. Succumbing to the afterlife like many of the loved ones of his past. Becoming a _victim_ of the light in spite of constant hope-filled wishes spewed by the living; friends…family… people who were destined to surpass him in the great adventure of life. Becoming _part_ of the light. The great, ‘evil’ light that could suck, with ease, the life from even the most healthy and robust causing them to vanish, never to be seen again. Pure wicked it was…or so they’d claim. Wicked in all its notorious ability to permanently rob people of their loved ones and lock them away in some kind of inaccessible prison.

For reasoning of the like, most were in favor of staying away from it and keeping others away from it if remotely possible. They’d do anything to steer clear of its inviting embrace regardless of whether or not it was fate’s way. They feared it. Feared the unknown as was characteristic of the human race. John had been no different. Such crude encounters were all he’d come to know within his short lifespan. He’d grow to love someone, and just when it seemed everything was falling into place within the universe, they were ripped mercilessly away from him… courtesy of this so-called light. His mum… Uncle George… Stu… he’d seen it happen to all of them. It wasn’t a light. It was darkness. Pure evil. …At least it _had_ been. For years and years it had been. A situation, however, was always different when one was presented with it upfront. Suddenly narrow-minded perceptions wouldn’t seem so… narrow-minded. Suddenly there was another side to what had, for so long, been perceived as a one-sided story. Eyes were opening. Enlightenment was finally taking place. Or was it? John wasn’t entirely sure. But he now knew one thing. Those who’d advised against the light and all its properties couldn’t possibly be speaking from experience. They had to be mere spectators. People watching from the sidelines. Like John had been. People who were afraid of losing their loved ones to its ever commanding embrace and its compelling pull towards the great beyond. Like John. Within it, they saw the end and _only_ the end. A gateway to no return. Eternal doom. Blackness. Death. It truly was narrow-minded perception, really. A right blinkered assessment. It _had_ to be because upfront, the light… _this_ light… it was everything the human soul could ever long for. He could feel it. It was everything he could ever need. It was comfort over distress. It was warmth over cold. It was bliss over gloom. It was balance over disarray. It was love over hate. It was truth over deception. It was beauty. Healing. _All_ on vast levels unfathomable to the limited capacity of the human mind. Most importantly, it was freeing. Liberating. An outlet. A way to leave the burdensome vessel of the human body behind. To successfully break away from its chains. To shed one’s defective skin and continue, free of anguish, free of torment; on route to another journey of a lifetime.

Pain didn’t exist beyond this light’s protective shield, nor could it ever. Grief was unheard of and despair, a myth. Within the light’s everlasting reach, concerns and worries could no longer live up to their destructive capacities… And John wanted it… More so, he _needed_ it.

Judging by the present display, his situation had long ago, been labeled a lost cause. This hope everyone had struggled to cling to, scant from the get go, was wavering; long since having been replaced with all-out agitation. Most prominent, was the heavy sense of doom descending from the ceiling as though perhaps, he was at a point of no return and there was nothing remaining in the world remotely capable of turning the tables. He was dying. The doctors knew it. The nurses knew it. The _universe_ knew it. Simply, his fate was locked and his destiny was falling into place.

Oddly enough, this disclosure had no true effect on Lennon as he looked on. No effect, even as the light… the shining, beautiful, lustrous light, began its determined course towards him. As it began to filter in through the surrounding windows, advancing upon him at a slow but steady pace. As it wordlessly began its harmonious song; beckoning to him. Willing him. Wanting him to join forces, forever. He could feel the gravitational pull within every inch of his persona… his very soul… Like a long-lost mother, it embraced him. Lifted him; helping him to see that his journey was permanently over. He was done here. He was going home. Home finally, in the midst of all the beautiful, enchanting, unearthly glory. He could almost taste the freedom.

“What are ye’ doing?! Snap out of it!!”

What? What now? Suddenly he wasn’t floating freely towards the blue yonder but back in the dreaded confines of the hospital room he’d become much too familiar with for his liking. Groaning with increased disorienting dizziness, he struggled to glance about him in a feeble attempt to take in his surroundings. The attempt failed miserably as the headache, he’d managed to free himself from, resurfaced with a dominant vengeance. It was then when he realized with an increase in trepidation that he was back once again, in his battered, dilapidated body. What the… Perhaps he hadn’t been dying after all. Had it all been a dream?

“Over _here_ , Lennon…”

_Stu_? John frowned in confusion as he followed the source of the voice, in spite of his doubts. His eyes locked on an inconceivable, unimaginable surprise in the form of the one and only Stu Sutcliffe… seated calmly at the edge of his bed as though he’d had every right to be there. Was he dreaming? If everything that had taken place before had been a dream then what did that make this?

This time he was the first to speak as Stu seemed to be busy enjoying the expression on his face.

“St--St--Stu…!” he stuttered, his cheeks flushing beyond sickness and embarrassment at the lack of grace in the only word he could properly produce with his tongue.

“Now yer getting it, Johnny,” Stu grinned lightly, “I see yer wit has declined over time,” he added playfully.

John scowled at him. “Come to gape at the rundown sod ye’ once knew or did ye’ ‘ave a better reason fer gracing me with yer presence?”

“I thought ye’ might miss me,” Stu responded, mock hurt plaguing his face.

John frowned, _of course_ he missed him. He missed him _constantly_ beyond comprehension… As many years as had passed since his mate’s tragic end, John had _never_ allowed himself to successfully get over the brunt of his death… _Never_ allowed himself to fully let go. So _why_ was he here?

“Of course, I miss ye’…” John stated softly, “You were me best mate, y’know… It was wrong for ye’ to go so soon… Wrong of ye’ to… and Astrid…”

“Astrid’s fine. I see her periodically, y’know.”

“It’s still so wrong…”

Stu smiled in spite of Lennon’s sorrow-induced words, “Regardless of what ye’may think, it was time fer me to go, Johnny. Time fer yer mum, time fer yer uncle… We all need to go sometime…” He grew suddenly serious, “And unless ye’wish to permanently join us, you’d better get a grip on yer own self…”

John frowned, “Whadaye’ mean?”

“Y’died, y’know,” Stu responded nonchalantly.

So it hadn’t been a dream then…

“Yer fever spiked, ye’ entered a fit of delirium, and as though the delirium wasn’t enough, ye’ ‘ad a seizure which ultimately killed ye’…” He smiled softly, “Always ‘ave to outdo yerself, don’t ye, Lennon? Always ‘ave to be the center of attention…”

“I don’t!” John argued indignantly.

“Shut up and listen!” Stu calmly responded, “You need to get back to yer body before y’lose yer battle altogether. As much as we’d all like fer ye’ to join us, I don’t think yer ready for that kind of commitment just yet…”

“Get back to me body?” John echoed, confusion adding a quaver of uncertainty to his tone, “I am in me body…”

Stu shook his head frantically and hastily pointed down towards the bed which suddenly seemed strangely distant. Swallowing hard, Lennon scrubbed at his eyes and followed his mate’s frantic gestures, his eyes widening as he was faced with the unexpected. Stu was right. He wasn’t in his body at all, but several feet in the air, floating _above_ it, rather. He was in terrible condition too, it looked like. Heavily flushed with a tint of pale grey. He looked like death itself. Like he was _dying_. Or _dead_. Perhaps none of this was a dream then.

“Y’don’t look so great, y’know,” Stu chimed in as though that much wasn’t obvious.

John ignored him, his eyes narrowing on the seemingly hopeless mess in front of him. He could see the doctors now too; all of them busy fussing aimlessly over him. And if he listened carefully, he could hear the undisguised worry in their voices. The word ‘dead’ came up quite a bit, as well, the simple word, striking an odd feeling of trepidation within him. Oddly enough, it seemed to seal his fate. Lennon found himself shaking off a reactive chill as it ran through him; the shudder seemingly a subconscious way of ridding himself of the frightening image he was faced with. Regardless, it didn’t work. It was still there. Everything was still wrong. Bloody hell. It was official. He _was_ dead.

“I…I don’t know what to do…” John quavered, returning a teary gaze back to his mate.

“Let instinct guide you. And fer chrissake, stay away from the bloody, fuckin’ light! Like a moth to a flame, ye’ are!”

And to his surprise, Lennon grinned at this, a laugh contrary of his previous mood, escaping him.

“What are ye’ on about _now_ , John?” Stu snapped, his face shifting into a glare.

“Y’swore!” Lennon laughed, not even sure why it was funny in the first place. His mind seemed to have a mind of its own. Perhaps, it was a defense mechanism of some sort.

“And?”

“And yer dead! Aren’t y’supposed to be holy and all that?”

“I’m dead, Lennon, that’s all. I’m not God or anything of the like, y’know!” Stu sighed with a roll of the eyes, “Bloody ‘ell, are y’delirious or what? Just get back to yer body ‘fore ye’ screw things up!”

John took a deep breath and closed his eyes. After a moment of pronounced concentration, fiery pain engulfed him once more as he was suddenly met with the disabling, disorienting headache from hell. Probably why he’d left his bloody body behind in the first place. He could feel the bed beneath him and knew he had succeeded. Once again, he was in bloody misery. Once again, he wanted out. He was hot all over, dizzy… everything ached unrelentingly. It was no doubt why he’d left… “Stu….” he murmured weakly. He could just see a figment of his old mate, standing off to the side with a nostalgic smile on his face. Beside him, materialized his uncle George and seconds later his mum. “Mum… uncle George…” he slurred next, his eyes shifting towards them.

_Uncle George… George… George… Harrison…_

“Holy hell, he’s _moving_!”

“ _Moving_?! He’s trying to _speak_ for Pete’s sake! What is it he’s trying to say?!”

“But… he was dead… He’s supposed to be _dead_! Time of death was—”

“I’ll be damned!” a new voice contributed, “What a trooper this one is! I was certain he was a goner!!”

“But we _did_! Time of death was—”

“Don’t question the unexplainable! Thank God… wherever he is…”

“Who’s George?”

“His band mate in the other room!” someone replied indignantly, “Don’t you know the Beatles at all?”

“And what’s this about his mum? Isn’t she dead, as well? His medical record states so.”

“He’s delirious. What do you expect?”

_Dead…_ John thought dully. He coughed, the resulting pain sending repeated flashes of light throughout his skull. _Dead…_ He could hardly process the meaning of the word before darkness claimed him in once again.

“Damn it, his vitals are dropping… we’re losing him all over again…”

“Increase his antibiotics. He’s got to fight this thing.”

* * *

Darkness was everywhere; spanning every corner, every crack and crevice like a thick, boundless array of cobwebs. There were distant untraceable sounds everywhere, all of them reverberating off the heavy darkness itself, giving the impression of vast spaciousness. If he concentrated deeply enough, he could make out something resembling what at first seemed to be aimless humming. It was distant but present nonetheless. And if he concentrated even more, he could hear words cleverly falling into line with this ongoing melody.

“…And you’re making me feel like I’ve never been born…”

 

George continued to squint through the thick surrounding darkness, realizing finally after an extended period of time that the source of music was originating not from the darkness itself, but from none other than his buddy John Lennon. He could tell by the voice. He’d know it anywhere. His seemingly long lost pal was nearby, it appeared. Good ‘ol Johnny. Where had he been all this time? It felt like he hadn’t seen him in ages. How long had it been? Days? Weeks? Months? Years? As if right on cue, the darkness lifted confirming George’s readymade conclusions.

“John!” he called out, his tone of voice glorifying his happiness just to see another human being let alone someone he knew dearly. He must’ve been out of his head now or wherever he’d been. “Johnny!”

“…I know what it’s like to be dead…” John obliviously sang on, his voice growing significantly weaker, “I know what it is to be sad…”

George frowned. Had the rhythm guitarist not noticed his presence? Was he deliberately ignoring him? Worse, what was he even singing about? This was darker than any of the Beatle’s current music. Resultantly lost for words, he could hardly bring himself to question the lunacy of what was happening before his very eyes. “John?” he found himself repeating in faint surprise; his increasingly timid voice seemingly incapable of much more. “What is this song?” Harrison was sure he’d heard nothing like it before though he’d had no doubt Lennon had wrote it; potentially by himself and without the help of McCartney. The lyrics so far were _very_ Lennon-like.

“…And you’re making me feel like I’ve never been born…”

“I’m _not_ causing any such feelings!” George indignantly argued, despite not going entirely what it was he was even on about. But never mind what _he_ was on about, what was Lennon on about? “John!” the lead guitarist began calling out again, desperate to be heard; resulting apprehension washing over him like something of a voluminous wave, “John! You all right, mate? Can’t ye’hear me? … _Blimey_!! If anything, _yer_ making me feel like _I’ve_ never been born…”

No answer. Only more music to replace the fallen silence.

“John!!” the lead guitarist continued to repeat, louder this time; strength beginning to gather within him as panic increased.

Still nothing.

“ _John_!!”

His fellow band mate stopped playing on command and turned to look at him; his eyes presenting themselves with an unnerving barrenness George was certain no living being should ever be able to achieve. He looked… _Dead_. “John you --” The lead guitarist’s quavering voice trailed off helplessly at an inconvenient lack of descriptive adjectives yielded by his suffering mentality.

“I know what it’s like to be dead, y’know…” the rhythm guitarist cryptically revealed, his voice just as vacant as his eyes.

George froze, his mouth and eyes widening simultaneously. “N-no you don’t…” he tentatively dared to counter, a better response having not been available.

“Dead.” John repeated as though he was making all the sense in the world, “I’m dead. And so are you.”

“That’s silly,” George indifferently began, “I’m _not_ … _Yer_ not…” He blinked in a fit of shock, allowing his voice to trail off as he noticed at that very moment that the front of his band mate’s shirt was drenched in blood. An excessive amount of blood that he couldn’t possibly have overlooked at any point of observing his mate within the past several minutes. “J-Johnny, wh-what’s going on?” he quavered in an uneven mixture of fear and surprise, “What’s happening to you?”

“I’m dead, y’sod. How many bloody ways should I put it?” He turned around without the slightest bit of warning, revealing several bullet holes crudely nestled within the back of his shirt. Dark red blood still oozed lazily from the blatantly fatal wounds. “Bloody bastard got me. Finally.”

“But yer… But _yer_ … Who… who _did_ this?? I’ll murder ‘em… I’ll—”

“Me death can’t be avoided and neither can yers,” John ominously interjected, his eyes lacking any emotion whatsoever, “Some people are just meant to die young, y’know. Me mum, me uncle, Macca’s mum, Stu, … meself…” His eyes grew darker as he zeroed in on George’s face, “ _you_ …”

George’s blood ran cold, “But John, _I’m_ still alive… _yer_ still—” He trailed off abruptly in a forced struggle to gain his bearings, “We can still…I can get help if you’ll let me! Y’won’t have to die this way!!”

“Don’t be daft. Yer too young. A wee tot. They’ll never listen to ye’,” John flippantly explained with an agitated roll of the eyes; the first real display of emotion George had seen from him since they’d unexpectedly crossed paths, “‘S’why I never wanted you in me band, y’know.”  He broke off abruptly allowing an intense light to claim his eyes. “I’m a jinx they say. Y’must save yerself, Havva! Get out while y’still can! It only gets worse from here on out.”

George shrank back, “ _What_ gets worse?”

“Everything. Don’t let them change yer world like they did mine.”

“What?”

“Nothing can change yer world,” John emphasized, the repeated message all but clarifying things. What was left of the concentrated sense of urgency that had been momentarily sealed into his eyes was fizzling out at an alarming pace to be taken over once more by the unnatural dullness that had been there earlier. “Nothing’s gonna change yer world against yer will…” he whispered. He coughed harshly without warning, thick, sticky dark red blood spurting from his mouth. “Don’t…” He swayed on his feet, his fatal injuries clearly taking its final toll on him, “ _Don’t_ …”

George shook his head frantically. This couldn’t possibly be happening. John wasn’t dying right in front of him… He couldn’t be. The lead guitarist’s legs finally shifted into gear and he rushed towards his fading friend as if sensing what was about to take place. “J-just hang on, Johnny…” he pleaded, struggling blindly to help steady him.

There was no immediate response as his mate’s eyes proceeded to roll back in his head and he fell forward into his arms, George barely managing to catch him.

“Johnny?”

Nothing.  After checking his vitals, he came to one earth-shattering conclusion. He was dead. John was dead. His buddy. His pal. Slowly, despite shaking limbs, he lowered him to the ground. He was _dead_. _John was dead…_ And it was this finalizing conclusion that brought forth the tears.

“ _Blimey_!! What have y’done, George?!”

“ _Wha_ —?” George looked up from John’s lifeless body, his tear-filled gaze landing on Paul. Or what appeared to be Paul, anyway. He didn’t recognize the accusatory glint in his eyes nor the pure, uncharacteristic hatred radiating off his very being. “Paul, I didn’t…”

“You’ve gone an’ killed ‘im, ye’have!” the bassist exclaimed.

“But I couldn’t ‘ave! There’s no way…”

“What’s this, then?” Paul countered. He stooped down beside him and pulled a shiny glass and metallic object from him that had somehow wedged itself into his bony shaking grip. “What’s this, then?” he repeated accusingly.

“I-I don’t know!” George quavered. He’d never seen the thing before in his life.

“Bollocks! You’ve used it to kill him and you know it!” Paul sneered maliciously. He held the object up into the light revealing its identity. A syringe. An impossibly large one at that. Down one side, George could make out the bone-chilling words: ‘quarantine’.

Paul’s face darkened as he turned back to face him. “You may have killed us all…” he ominously affirmed.

Had the situation been slightly more lighthearted in nature, George might’ve openly laughed at the lab coat the bassist was suddenly sporting. Only there wasn’t a spontaneous ounce of humor left within even the tiniest cell of his body. And there was nothing funny about the mad scientist aura he was beginning to radiate. “Paul, please!” he found himself quavering… begging in a way his pride would never allow under normal circumstances. “You have to understand—”

“I should’ve known y’weren’t Beatle material,” Paul spat, “Hardly grown into yer guitar and now look at what you’ve done!”

Before George could even begin to react let alone brace himself, his band mate was upon him in a flash. With additional lightning quick reflexes, he could only watch helplessly as the bassist skillfully expelled air from the seemingly still growing syringe and crudely injected it into his chest. “It’s yer turn, Georgie,” Paul stated coldly all the while. “Yer turn to face yer fate before the rest of us. What goes around comes around. Everyone knows that.”

The process was surprisingly painless. The life didn’t drain from him as would be expected. Simply, he was in his prison cell of a body, and then he wasn’t. In a flash of unregistered time, he was standing on his own two feet, pain-free, in the midst of a mysterious golden haze. Shimmering… Glowing… Radiant. Every ounce of him, every sense; outwardly enhanced by the air itself. Charged. His very surroundings seemed to hold an electrifying, energizing buzz, all of which helping him to feel extraordinary… peculiar… and overall remarkable all at the same time. In what seemed like the blink of an eye, he’d been transported to what may as well have been another realm. Another plane of existence. Was this death? Was this what death felt like?

_“It isn’t your time, George. You shouldn’t be here…”_

George jumped in a fit of surprise at the sudden addition of a seemingly unspoken female voice. The source, he quickly grew to realize was nowhere to be seen. Yet there was something about it that was oddly familiar.

_“It’s not your time, Georgie…”_ the voice spoke again.

“ _Who are you_?” George spoke aloud… Or at least thought he had. His voice didn’t seem to hold the usual verbal capacity characteristic of a human being. Rather, it seemed to emanate from within him.

_“You shouldn’t be here.”_

The figure came into view finally… or rather materialized before him. A woman. Eyes locked and George’s jaw dropped slightly in a fit of wonderment. He was certain he’d never seen this person before, yet there was something familiar about her. Comforting even. Perhaps it was the dark hair and equally dark eyes that seemingly resembled his own. Perhaps it was the fact that she looked like someone he may have been related to. “ _Who are you_?” he repeated.

“ _We haven’t met on a corporeal plane, but you may know me as your great-grandmother. Yer father’s grandmother_.”

Weirdly enough, George found he had no desire to go with what was natural and question this woman’s identity. Somehow, it was as though there were no doubt she spoke the truth. “ _Am I dead_?” he asked instead.

“ _You’re in transition_ ,” his great-grandmother responded, her eyes narrowing sternly upon him. “ _You shouldn’t be. It’s not your time._ ”

“ _Then why am I here_?”

“ _You’ve given up!_ ” she snapped, “ _Gone and turned yer back on the world! What will your parents think? What of your siblings? What of your band mates? This is not how you were raised_. _And you’ve never displayed such characteristics until now. You need to leave and you need to do it now! Yer fading! Becoming a part of the light all the time! It’s not yer time!_ ”

“ _But I’ve killed John! Paul said so._ ”

“ _You’ve done no such thing!_ ” his great-grandmother passionately exclaimed, “ _Don’t be daft, love. It’s just your conscience talking. Somehow you feel responsible for his illness though you shouldn’t. No one’s blaming you… The only thing you’re doing is killing yourself with shame. Now get a grip on yourself before you succeed. You’re quite ill yourself and your misplaced guilt isn’t helping matters._ ”

“ _I’m ill_?”

His great-grandmother nodded solemnly. “ _… And it’s not your time to die because of it._ ” She paused turning slightly to her left as if picking up on some distant sound. When she returned her gaze to him, her eyes were glazed over slightly with tears. “ _Nor is it his time_ ,” she slowly concluded.

George followed her gaze as she gestured nonchalantly to her left to what at first appeared to be nothing significant. Then before he could begin to question it, there was a sudden visual disturbance in the flow of haze and the light shifted slightly giving way to something that hadn’t previously been in the vicinity. An object. A person… A figure of some sort could be seen looming in the distance. Before eyes could adjust for curiosity’s sake, the haze closed in around its edges, distorting its outward shape and making identification near impossible. George’s brows furrowed as he continued to stare, a random, unexplained chord of emotion coursing through him. Somehow, he felt as though he knew this person. And then it dawned on him. John. John. It was John… He was staring into the lost face of his own band mate. His idol. His mentor. One of his ‘brothers’ so to speak. While he couldn’t quite tell, he just knew it. _But how could it be? That would mean… It would mean…_ In any icy instant, it all clicked. _John was… dying or worse…_ He was _dead_. “ _Nooo_!” he cried out as the realization settled. “John!!”

The ground shook as if victim to a massive earthquake and all around him, his surroundings began to fade, flickering in and out of focus. He looked for John through it all, but he could no longer seem to find him. It was like he had never existed. “Johnny!” he found himself calling out, random fear gripping him. No response. His voice hadn’t even seemed to work for that matter. “Joh--” his plea was cut short this time by a sudden blinding pressure behind his eyes. The headache. It was back. Harrison dropped to the ground, a feat that seemed oddly reminiscent of some seemingly distant earlier time from which he couldn’t seem to pinpoint. The pain increased erratically, coaxing out unforgiving waves of dizziness coupled with brutal nausea. Misery forced him even lower to the ground and just as he was certain he was about to throw up from the burden of it all, a newfound world of darkness rose to swallow him.

All at once, he was surrounded by muffled voices while accompanying, bothersome hands proceeded to shake him for reasons unknown… His name was called over and over again… but no matter how many times he thought he answered, he just couldn’t seem to conform to whatever it was they wanted…

Then it dawned on him. John! He’d seen him somewhere… Somewhere he shouldn’t have been… Where was that? Where was he? “John…” he found himself croaking out. “Where… John…?”

“He’s just in the other room, dear,” a sweet feminine voice responded, “You’ll see him again soon.”

George managed a faint nod and closed his eyes, this time allowing for darkness to pull him into a deep, torment-free slumber.

 “His vitals have finally stabilized,” a nurse reported, glancing briefly to the monitor they’d struggled for the past several minutes to hook him up to.

“Yes well, we’re still in for a long night,” a doctor replied shortly, “If the other one continues on the way he’s going, we could very well lose him tonight. We’ve had too many close calls already…” He gestured solemnly to George before turning to leave the room, “Whatever you do, just make sure this one stays in as good of shape as possible. We can’t afford to lose both.”

 


	35. A Taste of Honey

Initially, Paul wasn’t sure what had woken him. He lifted his head from his pillow, the action slow and hesitant; arms working overtime to support his upper body. It was morning now… or at least early morning, he perceived as he allowed his sleepy eyes an official look about his room. Something was different as well. The very room seemed to behold a level of unease that hadn’t been present even the night before when he’d finally slipped off to bed, tired and disillusioned over John, George, and everything for that matter. The very atmosphere felt… disturbed.

Paul frowned, perplexed. What had woken him, anyroad? _Something_ had. Traces of his name had entered his subconscious, successfully rousing him from the deep, blessed pull of sleep he’d been afore gratefully victim to. At first, he had thought that maybe it was Ringo and something was horribly wrong with him. But one look at the still soundly sleeping drummer proved such an assumption to be a fallacy; though it did earn him a much needed chuckle. It was rather comical, really how Ringo would and could sleep. Completely covered from head to toe, he’d easily slip into a peaceful slumber without any presenting fears of suffocation. It baffled Paul how the drummer could sleep in such a way. He, himself, would rather his face uncovered if nothing else.

Gaze swinging away from Ringo, his eyes sought out the rest of his room. Nothing physically was out of order, as far as he could see, yet he couldn’t seem to shake the idea that something felt overwhelmingly off. Blimey! What in bleeding hell was it, then? Dressers stood where they should. Decorative art pieces hung sparingly throughout the room on walls of beige appeared to have remained untouched. The room’s solitary window remained cracked only slightly allowing into the enclosed space refreshingly cool, dew-saturated morning air. So what was off about it? McCartney’s eyes gravitated towards the door right then, widening in realization, as he noticed for the first time that it was newly ajar. And it hadn’t been ajar when he’d dropped off last night, had it? The bass player was sure that it hadn’t been. Perhaps Ringo had gotten up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom and in his sleep-laden haze, slipped back into bed forgetting to shut the door. Or maybe…

Eyes still on the open door, McCartney sat up officially and swung his legs over the edge of the bed so that his feet met the floor. Then he stood, his head tilted slightly to his left. If he trained his ears just right, he almost felt he could hear voices from the hall. Hushed, repetitive buzzing that suggested urgent, important conversation. The bassist’s heart wrenched within his chest as he shot a fleeting glance at the clock. 5:30 am its tell-tale hands read. It wasn’t even six yet! Additional trepidation kicked up within the back of the bassist’s mind at the uncovered revelation. As it turned out, there was no real reason anyone should be up in urgent conversation at such an hour. Not when all publicity events had been canceled… Not when traveling wasn’t a factor. Not when the band wasn’t on any sort of schedule, whatsoever. Logically, something must’ve happened. Or rather something _was_ happening. Call it intuition… call it the mind’s ability to fill in the blanks… but… something was definitely amiss.

Heart thudding an impossible amount now for reasons unknown, McCartney crept towards the door and pausing just inside its frame, leant an ear to the outside world. Sure enough, heated conversation was taking place and Paul recognized the voices instantaneously. Brian and Mal. Mal and Brian… But what was it that tainted their voices? Sadness? Fear? Worry? Fuck. Unable to stand the suspense any longer, the bassist publicly burst into the hall with all the furor of a madman, eyes swinging about wildly in search of the two men. He found them standing about in the sitting room; the two standing face to face, everything about their eyes, their expressions confirming the worst of Paul’s worries. No one noticed him at first, so he spoke, overly eager to make his presence known.

“What’s this?” The bassist warily inquired. His voice altered from the still-present grip of sleep, portrayed up front and foremost, all the qualms that had been bubbling just below the lid of his mind.

“P-Paul!” Brian turned to him in a mixture of surprise and something else unnervingly unreadable. It took a while, but the musician was soon able to recognize the presence of fear. Very real fear. This was all but settling to him.

“I heard voices…” he mumbled, eyes narrowing questioningly on the manager.

“We considered waking you,” Mal moved in to proclaim, “But you were so soundly sleeping, I didn’t think you’d realize.”

“I’ve slept lightly all night,” Paul professed, looking skeptically from Brian to him and back again, “John… George… me brain wouldn’t stop replaying everything over and over and over again…”

Mal solemnly nodded. “Neither would mine, really.”

Brian didn’t comment on the subject but judging by how knackered he currently looked, it was evident he’d gotten little sleep if any.

“So what is it that’s got y’chatting away so urgently at this ungodly hour?” Paul firmly pressed, the seriousness of the situation having been held at bay by brief, casual conversation, returning with a vengeance. “Everything all right?”

“Everything’s fine!” Brian aloofly relayed, a detached smile displaying across his polished face as he regarded the younger man.

The presenting musician placed his hands on his hips, resulting indignation flashing within his hazel eyes. Beating around the bush wasn’t anything he fancied at the moment. “Well, I don’t believe you,” he bluntly divulged.

Epstein miserably sighed, the truth of the matter bearing down. “You always were a perceptive one, Macca… Never could pull the wool over yer eyes.”

Edgily shifting his weight, Paul crossed his arms over his chest and readily graced him with a frosty, unblinking glare, “Well, I’ve reason to be skeptical when it comes to the likes of you,” he coldly stated.

Brian’s mouth quivered aimlessly caught between an all-out look of shock and a frown. Eyes falling to the floor, victim to befuddlement, he said nothing.

“What’s all this, then?” Paul urgently pressed on, looking to Mal now. Worry on the mysterious subject furrowing his brows, momentarily chased away fleeting spikes of anger.

Brian sighed once again, drawing McCartney’s eyes towards him once more, “I’ve recently spoken with the hospital. John’s doctor to be exact.”

“And?” McCartney waited with bated breath.

“He’s really ill, Paul…” Eppy’s voice broke as he newly struggled for control.

“But we already know that!” Paul took an unnecessary moment to point out, “Didn’t we?” He looked to Mal whose gaze had fallen to the floor. There was fear there too. Definitefear present in his eyes.

Brian forced in a deep breath, quavering at best, “They lost him… twice last night…”

The words surfaced with all the delivered passion of an extreme slap to the face. “They… _what_?” Reacting just the same as though he’d actually physically been struck, the bass player’s hand settled protectively against his face. His voice shook something terrible when he found the nerve to speak, “W-what is it yer t-telling me?”

Brian licked his lips nervously before repeating the bit of information that had been passed on to him what seemed like a mere matter of seconds ago, “John died… twice.”

Paul’s world felt as though someone had tossed him on some wild ride. His back finding the edge of the couch as he unconsciously backed up away from the brunt of the damaging news, he relished in the much-needed, much-sought-out support. Without it, he’d surely fall… directly through the floor… into the depths of no return. _This wasn’t happening. This hadn’t happened. John hadn’t…_ His mind worked a mile a minute as it struggled to process such disheartening information. _Died. John… died. Dead… twice…_ It was all so wrong… Christ, how could it be so wrong still? He lifted his head and fixed Brian with the steadiest guise he could muster. “And _now_?” he dared to ask.

No one made a quick enough move to respond.

“He’s all right _now_ , isn’t he?!” Paul demanded, his voice sharp, his eyes cutting.

Brian felt as though he were in a dream. Rather a nightmare, qualities seemed so unreal. “ _Now_ he remains in critical condition. They’ve increased his antibiotic intake in hopes of getting his fever under control. It’s his damned fever, causing this. It’s caused him two seizures and… and…” his voice trailed off, tears he couldn’t begin to fight off springing into his eyes.

“‘S’not his damned fever anymore than the illness as a whole!!” Paul viciously spat, physically, mentally, and emotionally perturbed all at once, “This has been a long time coming. He spent two days growing sicker all the time, and no thanks to you, hospitalization came merely as a final resort!” He was raising his voice now, a feat he couldn’t seem to help. “I tried to tell you otherwise! Ringo tried to tell you! Even _Mal_ tried to tell you but still y’chose to ignore us!! All of us!!”

Epstein shook his head frantically, desperate to get a word in edgewise, “I-I didn’t think it cou—”

“I _know_ John!” Paul mechanically went on, officially lost within his sea of feelings, “I’ve known him for several years!! Forty years it feels like. Every time he’d as much as start t’get sick, I’d know _long_ before the stubborn git even had the sense to realize it himself…” He paused, emitting a brief, humorless laugh, “As many times as I’ve seen ‘im through occurrences of the like… n _ever_ had I _ever_ been so scared that I would actually lose him. ‘S’was like I knew what was happening with him. ‘S’like I’d gained insight somehow!! And when the mood swings started happened…” He shook his head in projected despair, “Sure Lennon’s always moody when feeling less than grand… but this was bloody, fucking ridiculous!! On a level all its own that I’d never before witnessed… and that’s saying a lot!!”

“Paul…” Mal tentatively tried to intervene this time.

“ _Paul_ nothing,” the bass player was shouting now, torment of the utmost strength immediately evident, “Lennon’s me other half, y’know! The other half to me very soul. I can read him like a book as he can read me. We’ve always been able to, y’know…” He chuckled hollowly as a distant memory paraded through his mind, “I jus’… I jus’ want to know how it all came down this…! How it…” And he started sobbing right then, the point he’d been trying to construct dissolving into a blubbering mess.

“He’s not dead, y’know…” Mal struggled to console him.

“How do y’know?!!” Paul tossed back, “How do we _know_ he’s not dying right this instant? Who’s to keep it from becoming official?! He’s already died twice, what’s a third and final time?!! Third time’s the charm, ain’t it??!!!”

The floor creaked slightly at the edge of the room and three anguished, wearied pairs of investigative eyes drifted in the direction the sound had emanated from. Ringo stood in place, looking shaken. Like a deer caught in headlights.

“Ritch…” Mal whispered, starting slowly towards him.

“I-I heard everything…” the drummer mumbled hoarsely in response. He made no move to approach the group. “Will Johnny be okay?”

“We can only hope…” Brian whispered. He looked to Paul who looked away just as eye contact would’ve been made.

“Hope…” Ringo repeated, the word bringing with it a renewed sense of outlook. He smiled finally, “The Beatles shall overcome!”

“That’s the spirit,” Mal managed his most genuine smile of the morning, “By George, he’s got it!”

Meanwhile, Brian turned to Paul once again, his eyes heavily clouded with emotion. “I really wish you’d stop blaming me, Macca…” he murmured; his voice barely higher than a whisper. “I’m sorry. Sorrier than I think I’ve ever been in my entire life! I’d only been doing what I thought a manager should do in such an unfamiliar situation. I had no real way of knowing. I had no way of knowing what would eventually become of all my domineering decisions…” He heaved a sigh, “I’ll never be able to forgive myself. No matter John’s outcome, I can’t possibly…” And he was crying again. Large wet tears tumbling to the carpeted floor beneath him. Would he ever be granted the opportunity to see his beloved rhythm guitarist again? Lennon was truly something special. Had been from the get-go. Brilliant and laden with charm and wit, it destroyed the manager entirely from within, knowing he may have permanently tarnished his legacy while trying so hard to save it. To save the band. Such a talented lot they all were… How was it that life could be so unfair? So cruel?

“I realize that, Brian…” Paul’s voice was equally low, “But I’m afraid you’ll just have to allow me come into forgiveness on me own. This is much too real still… Much too…” his own voice abated at the demanding pull of his own emotions.

“So there’s hope for forgiveness yet?” Brian ventured.

Paul nodded once in curt affirmation, “Havva once told me that ‘all things must come to pass’… He’s right, y’know. Eventually, no matter the circumstances, so will this… ”

Brian nodded, taking in the larger-than-life message. What brilliant wording! What substantial advice!

“How’re we feeling, Ritch?” he asked, turning towards the drummer with restored business-like authority.

“Better,” Ringo added automatically, his smile portraying genuineness on the subject, “I’ve lost me headache though me throat kind of hurts.”

And Paul would’ve melted with relief had he not been slightly skeptical still, “Neither John nor George could shake their headaches fer even a second while ill. I suppose that’s a good sign, then.”

“So I won’t have t’get retested today?” the drummer asked with hope.

“It would make me feel better if y’went ‘ead with it, anyroad,” Paul countered without missing a beat.

“Me as well,” Brian strongly affirmed. Refurbished confidence found him to be a far cry now from how vulnerable he’d been lately. Something was happening in that very hotel. And the resulting hope and positivity was overwhelming. Unnatural almost. What could it mean? He turned to Paul, remembering he had yet to actually assess his health like he had Ringo’s. “How’re you doing, Macca?”

Paul nodded. “Good. Better y’know than I’ve felt even yesterday… Sleep works wonders on the body!”

“Well you lads needed it,” Mal smiled.

Brian glanced at his watch before looking at his boys once more. The look on his face indicated he was about to say something he was sure no one else really wanted to hear, “I’ve been asked…” he cautioned slowly, “that you two boys partake in a press conference. The fans… the press… worried as they are, they’re absolutely itching to hear an update on Lennon and Harrison. It’s been brought to my immediate attention that some of them are even under the morbid impression that they’re _dead_. Would you boys be up for such a thing? It’s completely optional given what we’re going through.”

Paul looked to Ringo who looked back with the slightest nod perceptible to the human eye. Paul smiled weakly taking in his silent message before returning his gaze to Brian. “We’ll do it fer the fans especially. And under one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“We’ll need to visit the hospital shortly after.”

“With not a minute to spare,” Brian obediently concurred, “So it’s official then?” His eyes swung to Ringo for added confirmation. He knew the drummer wasn’t feeling well and would probably be up for anything but what he was asking of them.

“Yes,” Ringo convincingly affirmed. He coughed and cleared his throat before offering a renewed grin of assurance.

Brian studied him a bit more before turning his full attention to Mal. “All right then,” he relented finally, briefly glancing at his watch midsentence, “Mal and I will make arrangements for the conference straightaway. You boys focus on readying yourselves in the meantime. We’ll be off as soon as humanly plausible! You’ll say some words, acknowledge well-wishes, and be off to the hospital in no time flat.”

“Have we heard of George’s condition yet?” Ringo piped up.

“He was a bit coherent last night from what I understand,” Brian relayed forth, “They seem to think it’s a good sign but… only time will tell.”

Paul nodded as he took the information in. “Well that does seem like good news…” How he’d welcome anything of the like. Anything to stir up his waning spirit. “All right, let’s tackle this day then, shall we?”

“We shall,” Ringo grinned.

* * *

 

A few hours later found the heartier half of the Beatles nestled within another building entirely; a gaggle of intrusive, prying reporters at their mercy. As already anticipated by both Brian and Mal, it was chaos from the start. From the very moment they’d approached their set-up and sat, the questions came flying out like so many bees from a menacing hive. Things escalated so quickly, they hadn’t even had the necessary time to adjust their microphones beforehand.

Sensing the growing apprehension from what currently remained of his band, Brian found himself stepping in and raising his voice for some order. As resulting quietude fell, Paul glanced to him, a look of gratitude eking out in the form of a tiny smile. With ample poise, Brian returned it. And in a following instance, everything seemed as though it should be. Paul could almost imagine Lennon’s compelling presence from beside him as he shamelessly cracked vulgar jokes and made decisively daring comments bordering pure insolence. He could almost imagine Harrison sitting back, calmly overlooking the entire scene in detached amusement as he dragged on a ciggie.

Finding some comfort in this, the bass player brought his mouth to the mic and spoke in as crisp and cheerful a voice as he could conjure up, “Let’s begin. One at a time, please.”

“We’ve only two ears,” Ringo added with a small grin. Clearing his throat, he reached for one of the two glasses of water both the Beatles had been presented with, and took a small sip.

A tall, bespectacled, balding man stepped forward first, “I’d like to begin by of course, taking the time to welcome you all on behalf of all of New Jersey.”

“Thank you,” Paul and Ringo chorused in each their own way.

The man nodded, offering up a solemn smile, “I only wish the circumstances of such a get-together were different…”

Ringo shrugged, “‘S’not so bad, really,” he hoarsely yet optimistically professed, “As we’ve recently come t’realize, our situation could always be worse…”

There was a murmur of universal conformity within the crowd.

Paul too nodded his agreement, “Spoken like a true philosopher,” he smiled.

Some lighthearted laughter broke out.

“How are John and George?” a raven-haired lady asked next, “And if I may ask, where are they residing?”

“Some hospital nearby…” Ringo stated with a shrug, “‘S’all the same here… Buildings are all alike… ” He playfully pointed an accusing finger at their spectators, “Y’purposely made it that way to confuse us outsiders, didn’t ye’?” he quipped.

More laughter squeaked out, courtesy of the drummer’s cheekiness. Even Brian had to smile. Here was half his band, beside themselves with worries and anxieties, and they could hold their own just the same, bringing about a much craved positive spin on things. They were resilient, his Beatles. Pride washed over him as he looked on.

“So there’s no word on where? No word on which hospital?” the raven-haired reporter asked, sounding disappointed by the revelation.

“How many hospitals are located nearby, anyroad?” Paul asked, visibly nonplussed over the presenting situation in all its entirety.

“Five…” Ringo lazily rattled off, “Ten… hundreds maybe… Madness, that.”

Laughter.

“But what of Lennon and Harrison?” another man demanded, impatiently picking up on the previous reporter’s question that had yet to be answered.

“They’re ill…” Paul responded, the lowered tone of his voice bringing down the room concomitantly, “Very ill. Though from what I’ve heard, George isn’t faring too badly. He’s still quite ill but he was even a bit alert last night according to his doctor. They seem to think it’s a cause for commemoration.”

“What wonderful news!” a female blonde commented, her eyes sparkling with genuine gratification, “And John?”

“He’s not doing as well, I’m afraid…” The light left Paul’s eyes, as he addressed the most painful of topics. “He is, however, fighting to hold on as we speak.”

“We’ll keep him in our prayers,” the blonde dolefully spoke, imminently crestfallen by the contrasting disclosure, “I do hope he’ll be all right.”

Harmonized agreements washed over the crowd like a sanguine wave skittering forth along a barren and raw beach.

“Me too,” Paul admitted. He closed his eyes in what was meant to be a blink, but his eyes remained closed almost as a defense mechanism as a familiar wetness seeped into them. A shaking hand settled across his face. He wasn’t sure any longer that he could do this.

Behind him now, Epstein leaned in as though privy to his disenchantment and settled a comforting hand on his shoulder. “You’re okay…” he consolingly whispered.

Looking up briefly, Paul nodded. “Ta,” he whispered back.

Beside him, Ringo kept the show going for the sake of drawing eyes away from his companion. “They’re strong, y’know, our Johnny and George…” the drummer good-naturedly added, a sidelong glance to Paul, indicating he wasn’t just addressing the press, “That’s how they craft us back home.”

The place was flooded with laughter once more, an abrupt contrast to the tone set by Paul’s news. And this time, even the bassist joined in.

“How’re you boys doing… with all of this?” a female curly-haired brunette reporter asked.

Paul furtively wiped away at un-fallen tears, “We’re managing,” he truthfully relayed, “‘S’not easy though, y’know, dealing and whatnot when two of yer mates… _brothers_ ,” he corrected, “are in hospital.”

“No sign of illness amongst you?” the reporter continued on, looking now specifically to Ringo.

The drummer’s nose, though barely perceptible, was a bit red now from repeated wiping within the past hour. He’d been hoping that no one would’ve been able to pick up on it. Christ, these people were observant… or just downright nosy.

“I’ve a bit of a cold, I think,” Ringo presently admitted, “Nothing to write home about, ‘onestly.”

“And a cold is all it is?”

Ringo nodded. “As far as I know.” He made a feeble attempt at a quip, but the atmosphere of the room was quickly changing. Condemning were some of the eyes he was faced with. As though they knew for sure he was destined to end up like Lennon and Harrison.

 “Resources out of New York state that John _also_ thought he had a cold prior to his hospitalization,” a faceless someone piped up from the back of the crowd, the wording confirming Ringo’s initial fears.

The drummer frowned reactively, “That maybe so but I’m not John. We’re two different people in fact—”

“You are certain,” a different voice surfaced, “that you’re not careening down the same path in the shoes of your less fortunate band members?”

“Right certain,” Paul purposefully stepped in, not wishing to give anyone of these people _any_ false truths to run away with. For all he knew, tomorrow’s headlines would glorify Ringo’s death from an illness they weren’t even sure he had. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Maybe it was time to go. He looked helplessly to Brian who stepped forward almost immediately, clasping his hands together with all the authority in the world. “That’s enough chitchat for the day,” he quickly announced, “I’m afraid we must be on our way!”

Several more questions rang out at once, as every reporter feeling pressed for time, struggled to be heard.

Paul nodded politely at the crowd, allowing for each the questions to sail harmlessly over his head, “Until next time!” he told them.

“Be well!” Ringo additionally tossed at them.

He and Ringo stood, joining Brian in the ranks and as security stepped in looking to overcome any growing unruliness, they promptly disappeared into the protective mass.


	36. Baby's in Black

The several previous seizures from the night before had ended nearly as suddenly as they had unexpectedly gripped her patient; the intensity of them managing to zap him twice of his life-force altogether. He was revived on both occasions to the relief of his nurse, and all for a while seemed like it was striving for the better. But this most recent of seizures… The one that had occurred mere minutes ago… The one that had caught her completely off guard… had had a different approach from the start. It had come on slowly… Gradually at first. A twitch here… A twitch there… And before any necessary degree of precaution could be taken, Lennon’s entire body was involved to the fullest and most extreme extent; instantaneously and involuntarily overpowering the emotion-filled human eyes of his caretaker with something that select few had _ever_ have been unlucky enough to experience.

As the nurse helplessly looked on, attempting to restrain him all on her own, the tormented musician continually convulsed whole-bodily for what easily seemed like several minutes at a time; wildly and ferociously thrashing about his bed like he was under demonic attack. Equally disturbing, remained the fact that there was nothing she could do but watch his unnerving descent as he helplessly did so, desperately waiting out the unruly seizure’s end, her heart breaking all the time for him. For this very reason, she didn’t like the commanding nature of seizures. In fact she downright _despised_ them and the damage that they were capable of causing. Despised them with a passion some medical personnel would think irrational. Why? They were among the most terrifying of _everything_ the caretaker had _ever_ witnessed during the entire course of her nursing career and she’d seen _many_ a death. To her naked eye, they were forever presenting as nothing short of a wicked, otherworldly night terror unnaturally having leaked into the corporeal realm of reality. And no matter what their strength consisted of or who they were happening to, they always seemed to border on supernatural… The thrashing, the drooling, the uncontrolled convulsing… all coupled with those eyes, unseeing and feral… Once one had managed to see such a deviation from the mundane, there was no unseeing it. The brain was a powerful thing. And even malfunctioning, it remained just as powerful. A fascinating concept… but equally unsettling, as well.

The seizure had ebbed away after a short while more, an additional eternity in the older woman’s mind, leaving the young rhythm guitarist impossibly still and impossibly pale. As she watched an air of calmness descend upon him like an eerie yet sinister fog somewhat reminiscent to pre-death in all its finality, she found she didn’t have a good feeling this time.

The complete contrast was startling. Like light versus darkness. The sun versus the moon. The eerie stillness hurrying in on the heels of a destructive storm. Nothing remotely good could possibly come from this… It rarely did.

There were few times outside her medical career, that the nurse had ever felt such an unusual calm about her. Originating out of ‘Tornado Alley’ in the southern portion of the Midwestern United States, Oklahoma to be exact; she was no stranger to the threat of tornadoes or the damage they were known to create. Never for as long as she lived, would she ever be able to forget her endeavors as a small child surrounding the fragility of life. Following several close calls. Life or death situations, she later grew to realize. One of the many reasons she had decided to become a nurse.

Her memories were still so fresh. Still so real as though she had merely lived them yesterday rather than nearly fifty years ago… Memories that stemmed from the still so vivid trials of her family as well as many others in similar predicaments, all urgently seeking out necessary safety and shelter from each their property’s storm cellars. She’d never been thoroughly capable of understanding the danger at so young an age… but she’d always gone along with it figuring she had to. As though it were a ritual. The accompanying panic that would follow her and her entire family as they bolted from the house as though running for their lives, spoke for itself.

Thinking back, she could almost still _feel_ the unmistakable wrath of the wild wind whipping its resistance all about her as it threatened to carry her off as though she were nothing more than a rag doll. She could almost _see_ the vibrant lightning continuously flaring up across the dark sky, charging the very atmosphere with an enhanced electrical current she could feel with every ounce of exposed skin. She could almost _sense_ the deafening sound of thunder as it coursed through her very body shaking her entire frame as though she were too made of paper. In the distance, tornado sirens were always just within earshot, rising deftly above the dangerous commotion and imminent destruction, as they wailed out their unearthly warnings, beckoning to impending doom. And how threatening the sky would appear to be as they’d frantically darted across the yard for protection. Stretched over them like a dark and ominous veil, it had always managed to hold court; appearing to be in complete control of everything and everyone unfortunate to be caught beneath it.

Reaching the storm cellar with always just enough time to spare, her family would then huddle together with lanterns and a battery-operated radio listening for updates on the weather. When it deemed them safe to emerge, they’d guardedly do so climbing up the thick cement stairs back into open air; many other nearby families doing the same. The initial ascent into the newly calmed atmosphere that would follow every tornado threat was every bit as frightening as the storm itself had been. Maybe it was the shock that fed such feelings and their resulting perceptions. Regardless, the nurse had never liked it.

Much like she didn’t like what was happening here in the present. Feelings were much too similar now. In fact, they were very much the same.

No matter the situation, the eerie calm following an extremely traumatic event was always the same. Tense. Ominous. Menacing.

The nurse had _hardly_ managed to maintain pleasant feelings the first few times she’d been granted the displeasure of seeing John seize… But there was now the vague and alarming feeling that something was undeniably different here at the very existing moment. Something was wrong in all the tranquility that now held the room captive as though it were merely an audience frozen in permanent captivation. No wonder the silence felt eerie. No wonder it felt wrong. Something was in the process of happening or… something had _already_ taken place… It was a _terrible_ feeling.

Tensed up for unknown reasons, the slightly apprehensive nurse swallowed back a growing lump in her throat, making the conscious decision to look him over as was expected of her.

Still, whispering soothing words of comfort as though Lennon could and would benefit from it, the nurse worked deftly to check his vitals. She worked delicately in spite of growing, overwhelming feelings of anxiety and apprehension. She worked in spite of the fact that something was palpably amiss. According to the medical board, it had never been considered a good idea to mix the unexplained with the solidity of science but… the nurse sometimes found she had this uncanny ability to sense different energies… as strange as most people would think it sounded. While she tried not to mix such overwhelming sensations with the seriousness of her job at hand, there were rare instances in which these feelings would become much too powerful to ignore. This was one of those times, hence why she very well couldn’t shake the sensation that something was truly out of kilter. These feelings, to an extent, were never wrong either. And it was never long before actual facts would begin to support her suspicions… As she diligently continually worked to assess John Lennon’s condition, she couldn’t shake the impression that it was already occurring. The facts were already falling into place.

Normally she could get a mumble from him by now. A murmur. All of which serving as a vague confused attempt at failed communication. He’d flutter his eyelids and look at her. Sometimes seeing her… sometimes seeing through her. And heralded by glazed, glassy, unfocused eyes, he’d drift off again to some far off land that sense surely wasn’t a part of. An ever-changing land of fever dreams and delusions… This time, the frantic nurse had been mentally struggling to will an outcome no different despite what seemed to be taking place. This time, she’d been hoping against the inexorable with all her might. While Lennon’s temperature still seemed to be holding steady at a reading much too high for most human beings, he’d somewhat consistently managed a level of consciousness that signified the norm for someone trapped in such a state. This time, something was unshakably different. There was no fluttering of eyes. No twitching of limbs. No reaction at all whatsoever. It was like he was dead… only he clearly wasn’t…

There was another conclusion she could draw from what she was now faced with. But before she’d dare think such a thing, there was a known series of tests she would first need to perform. She would most definitely have to work quickly to provide the necessary medical data that would in turn maintain the brunt of her mysterious feelings.

Mechanically, the nurse performed test after test, making mental and charted notes of all outcomes. It wasn’t until she’d finished several long minutes later, that an unwanted yet resulting feeling of absolute dread worked its way into the confines of her mind. She’d been hoping she was wrong. If what she was concluding to be true actually fit the criterion then…this was a definite sign of deterioration without a doubt… And as a direct result of this turn of events, it would all _officially_ be out of their hands. There’d be nothing to do but make him comfortable. Nothing to do but wait.

“…Something’s very wrong…” the older nurse tentatively relayed to Lennon’s doctor as she finished assessing the vitals of the Beatles’ one and only rhythm guitarist. He’d only just entered and, therefore, was completely unaware of everything that had recently transpired over a mere matter of minutes ago.

Approaching a nearby counter, traces of discontentment stiffening her stride, the woman hastily set down the sphygmomanometer she’d been carefully using to take his blood pressure and turned to gaze cautiously at her medical companion. Her ragged mind was in overdrive, trying to figure out how she’d begin her explanation.

“Something’s wrong, how so?” the doctor on the receiving end of the unforeseen news asked, his brown eyes narrowing warily as eye contact was made.

It had been exactly twenty-four hours since John had ‘died’ so to speak and while the musician spent all his time of late drifting between heavy sleep and fever dreams, any changes in consciousness from there on out was to be highly documented.

“It… it started with another seizure…” the nurse began, her tone clearly portraying the unease that reflected from her sad eyes, “What I perceived to be a _grand mal_ seizure by medical standards to be exact…” She frowned, heaving a brief, anxious sigh, “Doctor, it came on so slowly at first, I really wasn’t expecting it to progress so rapidly.”

“He had _another_ seizure?” The doctor was noticeably floored, his stunned face conveying every bit how shocking this was. The fact that his patients presently seemed to be falling victim to what was shaping up to be seizures of recurring nature was a terribly hard to miss sign that his condition was worsening yet still. This alone was a terrible revelation… And to think there was more that needed to be said. _‘What more could possibly need to be said?’_ the man’s mounting nerves forced him to contemplate. Was the news not dreadful enough? Were things not dreadful enough? He’d soon find out… Though he was almost certain that there was nothing in the world that he wanted less.

Nothing had been going right from the start of Lennon’s admission. And judging by the currently overwhelming demeanor of the frantic woman that stood in front of him, it only seemed it would get worse… “Go on,” the doctor impatiently prodded; hastily seeking out the rest of the story, despite the fact that a part of him, a steadily increasing part wasn’t sure that he truly wanted to hear it.

Appearing to be gathering her thoughts, the nurse nodded, receptive to the command. “Since…” she went on, swallowing back a lump in her throat, “Since the seizure, he won’t respond to any form of external stimuli; touch… light… sound… It’s like he’s shut down… I’m—”

“You’re _sure_?”

“Yeah, I’m almost confid—”

The doctor was well into testing the nurse’s disclosures long before she’d even had the chance to finish talking. Bending over slightly, he spoke into the younger man’s ear to see if he could gauge from him any type of reaction. “ _John_!” he called out, his clear verbalization presenting itself with a professional amount of firmness, “John, if you can hear me, move something. _Anything_.”

As the guitarist continued to lie still, motionless, the middle-aged man hovering over him desperately began the act of tapping gently but forcefully against the side of his face, hoping to bring about any form of feedback. A twitch, a flinch of pain, a fluttering of eyes…

As before, nothing happened. And the doctor swore, his overwrought mind racing a mile a minute.

John’s death was _still_ fresh within his head. Not once but _twice_ , he’d lost the patient following several unforeseen violent seizures only to somehow in the aftermath, have him make a miraculous albeit spontaneous return to the land of the living. Such a thing would take an extensive toll on even the most resilient of bodies, let alone someone who was already terribly frail and hanging on to life by what appeared to be nothing more than a thread. There was only so much the human body was equipped to handle. And in situations where it was already pushed to its limits, there was no telling what would be destined to follow. Things certainly weren’t looking good.

“Why didn’t you call for back up when he was starting to seize?” The doctor brusquely asked, briefly lifting his eyes to the nurse, mid-assessment, “Didn’t you think I should’ve been here as a regulator?”

“And what could you have done?” the nurse indignantly challenged, her normally bright blue eyes graying with exasperation, “He was having a one of the worst _seizures_ I’ve seen in ages! It took everything in me just to restrain him. To find you, I would’ve had to leave the room. I would’ve had to leave him alone!”

The doctor didn’t respond, knowing deep inside that the nurse was right. Had she not been there to restrain him, chances were anything could’ve happened. John could’ve fallen from his cot, in turn brutally striking his already assaulted head against the hard linoleum floor… and who knew what sort of irreversible complication would arise from it. His head, fragile as it was, would most likely lack the durability needed to overcome the blow. As a result, he’d probably die instantly or within hours…

Hurriedly reaching now for the penlight in the upper right pocket of his traditional, white lab coat, he zeroed in on Lennon’s face with increased haste. Skillfully prying open the young musician’s left eye located nearer to him, he flashed the light into it, checking vigilantly for any forms of dilation and contraction within the presenting golden brown iris. He knew from schooling and experience that both would occur as a natural, automatic reflex in a fully conscious, a somnolent, or a briefly unconscious individual. If the individual was officially unresponsive, complete with un-reactive pupils and nonexistent reflexes… it was almost practical to lean towards the idea that he may have entered… a coma… or something worse and more final. Death.

The doctor knew for a fact this time that his patient wasn’t dead. The steady beeping of his heart monitor unquestionably assured it along with the cherished fact that he was still breathing and unaided at that. That alone was cause for relief. The physician had seen coma patients slip so far out of reach, that they no longer had the ability to breathe on their own. Such a vegetative state was hard to come out from. Many victims didn’t make it.

Finishing his brief assessment of the left eye, the doctor quickly moved on to the right before stepping back, his unreadable features indicating deep thought. “You say you’ve tested his motor responses on your own?” he tersely asked, seeking out the confirmation he would need to make an official diagnosis.

The nurse nodded. 

“How’d you go about it?”

“Pinprick to the foot. He failed to respond.”

“Allow me.” Moving swiftly about the room, the man achieved a sterilized needle from a drawer of a cabinet and uncapping it, approached the lower half of the guitarist lying prone in his cot, exposing a foot. In one quick jerk, he went on to test the nurse’s conclusion, watching carefully for any reflexive qualities whether from the foot itself, the corresponding leg, and the face even.

Just as expected, not even the tiniest twitch could be detected anywhere in the aftermath. The doctor’s heart sank at this. “I was _afraid_ of this…” he sighed, his tone now heavy and world-weary, “Pupils unresponsive… mislaid reflexes…”

“What do you believe has happened?” the nurse asked, in spite of the fact that her solemn demeanor did everything to give away as well as confirm her immediate suspicions on the developing topic.

There was a pained sigh from the slumped man she tensely stood beside. “…It looks to me like John Lennon of the Beatles has officially slipped into a coma,” He briefly closed his eyes in a mix of silent frustration and distress, “ _There’s_ one for the newspapers…”

He hadn’t meant for his words to sound so bitter… But resultant discouragement was strong. Unshakable. This was everything he’d been trying so hard to avoid. This, being the second worst of all things that could’ve taken place, was everything he hadn’t wanted to come to be. It was only a step above death. One measly step above such finality. And the doctor was certain such a fatal outcome wouldn’t be far behind if treatment didn’t hurry up and take effect as soon as possible.

“The seizure somehow must’ve locked him into it,” the man tersely theorized just to give any source of possible explanation. He looked up suddenly in hopes of collecting any additional amount of necessary data that may lead to a properly formulated educated conclusion. “What were his temperature readings this time?” he tiredly asked, turning briefly to his companion while struggling to maintain logical professionalism for the sake of the situation.

The pleasantly plump, curly-headed middle-aged woman glanced down at a chart in her hands. Using an elegant pointer finger, she guided herself through it in quick search of the sought-after answers, “103.9…” she revealed after a while, “Bordering on 104… as has been the case all of today.”

The doctor frowned. John’s fever more or less had caused his seizure… His seizure caused the coma… and the coma would certainly bring about something morbidly permanent if one of these things didn’t change for the better. It was like some sort of deranged ‘House that Jack Built’ nursery rhyme…

_This is the illness that caused the fever that caused the seizure that caused the coma that…_

“It’s still much too high…” the nurse unwittingly interrupted his ragged thoughts gone astray, “It doesn’t seem to be showing any signs of dropping either.”

“His temperature seems to be holding steady for the time-being, at least…” the doctor finally interpreted, taking a moment to remember the earlier readings of the day, “However; I’d rather see it drop. I have a feeling it’s all but helping his altered state of consciousness. The swelling around his brain is the main cause, of course… but that high fever of his most definitely isn’t helping his case any…”

He brought a hand up to his face and raked it across his forehead. He was tired. So very tired. But again, it looked as if sleep would be unattainable for yet another night. His patient was deteriorating with impossible speed, and honestly he was running out of options. “I’ll want to change up his course of antibiotics,” he painstakingly planned out, “Perhaps, try something new and hopefully more effective. I’ll want to speak with Harrison’s doctor and see what regimen he’s been using…”

The nurse nodded and even smiled having officially regained control of her emotions. She had a nasty habit of letting them get the better of her.

“I’ll want to do something about his temperature too in the meantime …” the older man eyed his nurse briefly, as he spoke. “It might be beneficial of you to give him a quick cool-down with ice water.”

“I’ll sponge him down,” the nurse intelligently offered.

The doctor nodded appreciatively. He’d need all the help he could get tonight especially with his haggard mind slowing him down. “And in an hour or so, I’d also like for you to retest his levels of responsiveness and notify me right away if you happen to notice even the slightest bit of change in him.”

His nurse yieldingly nodded, hoping that everything would be different the second time around. That the coma diagnosis was somehow a false alarm and they wouldn’t have to give such terrible news. No one ever wanted to hear that their loved ones were in a coma. Even the medically-induced ones, used for extensive healing purposes in life-threatening situations; caused feelings of unease. There was always a small existing part of the human mind that believed they’d never wake up. Concerns of the like had been expressed to her time and time again by worried friends and families.

“Thank you, Nancy,” the doctor politely articulated, unwittingly interrupted her thoughts, “As I plan the next step, I’ll need the time to call his proxy. Notify him of these unfortunate changes.”

“The battle’s not over, you know,” Nurse Nancy pointed out as though sensing his waning confidence, “This is the witty Beatle we have under our wing… the smart one. I’ve a feeling he isn’t going anywhere without a fight.”

“He’d better not,” the doctor gravely responded, “My oldest daughter loves those guys and the one under my care just so happens to be her favorite of all of them. I don’t think she’d take too kindly to me killing him off. Neither would the rest of the America.” There was a very good chance that every girl in the country would show up to the hospital with torches and pitchforks, outraged by the distressing news and eager to burn the place down. Leaving nothing behind but ashes…

“The battle’s not over,” Nancy repeated, desperate to get that aspect of her message across if nothing else.

Solemnly, the doctor nodded. “I know.” She wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t already know.

But this case was different from any other case he’d ever dared to take on. That much was terribly obvious. The pressure, always elevated no matter who he was dealing with, had taken on a life of its own this time around. The heaviness of it all was immense to say the very least. And for the first time in his medical career, he was beside himself. He knew not how to deal or how to fix this. From there on out, it was simply a guessing game. Fix John Lennon. Or else.

First and foremost, he’d need to consult with Dr. Jamison, George Harrison’s doctor. A new approach and some insight would be highly refreshing and equally appreciated. After all, it would provide the only existing path that would hopefully lead to the improvement that would in turn put a positive spin on his patient’s outlook. An outlook that otherwise looked grim. Bleak. And generally unpromising.

Opening the door, he silently let himself out of the room and made his way down the hall with a full sense of urgency driving him. He was determined to turn things around. Determined to make a difference. While George Harrison’s case lacked similarity due to the fact that his illness had been caught in somewhat of a timely fashion, there had to be some kind of answer that could be applied to Lennon’s regimen. Something that would in turn give the musician the fighting chance he deserved. He had to at least try. If he tried and ended up failing, then…at least he would’ve given his all… He’d do anything not to see it come down to such circumstances, however. Such circumstances only existed by the chance that all options and attempts had been exhausted. That there was nothing else to be done. That John Lennon had simply given up.

But no one was going down without a fight.

Not on his watch.

By all he was capable of, he’d make sure of it. Whether he knew yet of not, John Lennon was about to put forth the biggest fight of his young life.

In one way or another, he’d make it through.

They all would.

The battle _wasn’t_ over.

Not even close.


	37. Because

The tunnel was long and dark… and he’d been walking forever it felt like. And only just now had he begun to see the light. It had been faint at first, but each footstep brought him closer to a promising realm… A land that seemed less dark… And possibly less threatening. George had no way of knowing what resided at the end of this tunnel… but he had an overpowering, strong sense that he belonged there. It was as though he was being guided forth by instinct. It was as though there were other forces invisible to the naked eye, graciously helping him along. Forces that wanted him to prevail. Forces that wanted _more_ for him… Whatever that readily entailed…

His body grew more exhausted as he gradually neared the light which was starting to resemble something similar to a silver mist. A tingling haze, he could feel with every ounce of his being. His soul. It enveloped him like water, giving the vague impression that he lingered just beneath its surface with the uncanny ability to breathe without necessary aid. And as it surrounded him, flowed eloquently through fingers, toes, hair, he somehow felt energized. Revitalized. Prepared for this strange journey back to where he belonged.

He’d need all the preparation he could get. All the energy. It was beginning to feel as though he’d spent the last several years strictly running an interminable marathon… before thoughtlessly taking on the tunnel of remaining eternity. At the moment, however, it at least seemed that he’d been keeping a constant and steady pace, no running involved. There were times that he hadn’t even been sure he’d been walking… but merely floating. Like an apparition of sorts. Like a creature of the sea.

Suddenly, unexpectedly, the light was upon him… and he could feel the water drain away from his face as though he’d just broken through its turbulent surface exposing his upper half to air. And as he sucked in a deep breath he hadn’t recognized he’d needed, an irresistible, compelling urge to open the eyes that he’d readily assumed had been opened to begin with, took over him. He felt weighed down… Cumbersome… Uncomfortable…

Slowly, his heavy lids parted nearly falling short of completing the task altogether. And the light that had been upon him, flooded them in a manner proving harsh and unforgiving.

Caught off guard, the confused, young guitarist flinched, some kind of strangled cry of surprise escaping his mouth. He’d gone from blissfully numb to every bit the opposite in a blink of the eye. And his amount of tolerance to it all was scantly limited. He _wanted_ to go back into his water-filled shell of a tunnel where it felt safe. Where he felt sheltered and protected. Surely he could… granted he could find a way to backtrack…

The pain was imminent … Feelings overwhelming… Emotions running rampant, attempting to link everything together. The more Harrison tried to make sense of it all, the less he understood… Everything was so bright… and hazy blocking any traces of awareness that would otherwise have found him. He’d never felt less sure of anything in his entire life…

“Mr. Harrison, you’re _awake_!” a pleasure-filled feminine voice announced, serving as somewhat of a startling distraction.

“I am?” Blinking blearily now into the impossibly bright light that unremittingly surrounded him every each way he turned, the lean young guitarist made an attempt to sit up, floundering miserably as his weakened arms hooked up to all kinds of wires and tubing, failed to do their bidding. The source of the spoken voice was at his side in an instant, pawing at him and helping him to lay his head back down for his own safety.

“But I wanna sit up…” Harrison slurred clumsily, not sure who he was even talking to. It could be a robot for all he knew. And the world could very well be in the midst of some robot apocalypse. “…Mus’find th’tunnel…”

“What tunnel?”

George looked hesitant finding he couldn’t remember what it was he’d been going on so insistently about. “I’don’rightly know…” he broke off, tentativeness adding a slight quaver to his voice, “Where’m I?” It was hard to talk really… There was something all the way up his nose scraping against the back of his throat. Swallowing around it as well as trying to talk with it in place was quickly become a chore… Without thinking, the lead guitarist impulsively began pulling at it, desperate to eliminate the discomfort causing agent.

All at once, hands gripped at both his wrists, “You need to leave that in place, George,” this same voice from earlier hurried to explain to him, “It’s a feeding tube.”

George frowned, utterly confused. But… why would he need to be connected to such a thing? He’d never before in his entire life, had problems feeding… or rather… _eating_ … “Where’m I?” he repeated, somehow figuring within his tattered mind that knowledge of his location would possibly help to explain the seemingly unexplainable.

Perpetual brain fog. What a bloody nuisance. It was as though someone had without warning plucked him up from the life he’d grown accustomed to and everything and everyone he thoroughly knew and found comfort in and placed him into this most unfamiliar of situations… Situations involving… tunnels… and water… tubes… and… unrecognizable company… His brain activity kicking up a notch to compensate for its extensive ineffectiveness, the lead guitarist blindly tried to grasp at any trace of insight he could manage to conjure up. Perhaps it was some kind of test he’d been thrust into… Perhaps it was some kind of prank courtesy of his mates… Surely Lennon had had a hand in it… the prankster that he known to be… And Paul as well… Dumb gits should really consider finding themselves a hobby… George frowned… What was he supposed to do here? How would things begin to return to normal?

“You need to take it easy, okay?” his strange companion cautioned, momentarily dancing around the question he’d asked, “You’re really ill!”

“I am?” George croaked again, his foggy head muddled with endless confusion. Maybe that was why he felt the way he did. Maybe it explained the feeding tube he had stuck down his esophagus. He struggled to focus on his surroundings, but his eyes didn’t wish to convey anymore than the rest of him did. It seemed he was to remain trapped in a blurred bubble… No wonder nothing made sense…

“You are! Though I’ve got to admit it’s refreshing to see you on such a coherent level!” He wasn’t that coherent… Not really… but he was openly conversing. Something she hadn’t seen from him since he’d initially been admitted.

George stared blankly at her, his eyes still not quite focusing.

“How do you feel?” the older woman went on to ask, studying him now critically and analytically.

“…Strange… grotty…r’ther…” George hesitantly admitted, his voice sounding strangely distant to his ears, “…foggy…” Trapped in ongoing mental mayhem, he started to lift his head again from his pillow, “…need… t’clear m’head… I’thnk… Gather m’bearings…”

Once more, the nurse sprang into action, debating internally whether or not she should hold him down. “You _must_ stay still, George, okay?” she sternly yet kindly advised, deciding for the moment against taking such extreme measures, “You’re just waking up… and your body is no longer equipped to handle much.”

The lead guitarist allowed for his head to sink back into the comfort of the pillow once more. He was already shaking and sweating from his endeavors, feeble as they were. And everything remained terribly hazy as though he were confined to the dreams of someone else. Honestly, it would explain so much by this point.

“Why’not?” he mumbled, his continually slurred words falling just shy of fully incomprehensible, “Wha‘s’wrong with me?” How did one just manage to wake up in such a situation with seemingly nothing leading up to it? Why couldn’t he make sense of anything?

The blurred woman, clad in white paused a moment in temporary thought, “Let me go and fetch your doctor!” she decided after a while, realizing that the information the young musician sought would be more efficiently explained by his direct caretaker. “I’m sure he’ll be happy to answer any questions for you. He’ll be over the moon, too when he learns you’re finally awake and somewhat alert! I know _I_ am!”

“ _Doctor_? Where am I?” George tried again, frowning now at how weak his voice still sounded, “Who’re you?” He had to squint to see her clearly through the stubborn haze that claimed his vision.

“You’re in a hospital. I’m your nurse,” the bird pleasantly revealed, “My name is Doris. I have been and will continue to tend to you for the remainder of your stay.”

“Doris…” the lead guitarist wearily echoed, “…Where…?”

“I wouldn’t worry about anything more right now,” Doris interrupted in a firm yet gentle manner, “Try and ease your mind. I’m going to get your doctor, okay?”

George finally allowed for his body to relax, un-tensing every muscle at once, all of them ultimately having been rigid from the effort of trying to make proper sense of a world that was utterly sense-free. “Ta-ra then…” he feebly murmured dismissively… or thought he had. It was hard to tell the difference between actual speech and thought these days, he was quickly finding out. Days… How long had he been here anyway? …A brief moment of clarity gripped him as though his mind had just then, proceeded to open a portal deep within his addled brain to his most hidden of recollections… It may as well have been locked up in Alcatraz… or whatever it was that American prison complex was known as…

What about the Beatles? And what about the show? What about John? Hadn’t he been ill as well, or had that been some sort of twisted dream?

“John…” he whispered aloud, his voice cracking weakly under the pronounced strain of wanting to be heard.

If the nurse had heard his detailed whisper, she didn’t pay it any mind. “I’ll fetch your doctor,” she said instead, “He can answer any concerns you may or may not have.”

The lead guitarist fell quiet, his eyes slipping closed as the tolls of consciousness began to take their effect as they would. He must’ve temporarily dropped off because within the next instance of recognized time, what appeared at first to be a silhouette blocking out a good chunk of the bright lighting, stood towering over him as though it had simply materialized there. A few blinks cleared away the remainder of the haze and for the first time in what seemed like ages, _actual_ full-fledged lucidity gripped him. The silhouette, he realized was actually something of a doctor. More so, it _was_ a doctor… _His_?

Even exhausted, George was determined to get as many answers as he could in regards to his whereabouts and what exactly it was happening to him that led him to a hospital of all places. Where to start… though… His mind perpetually felt as though it had been thrust into a washing machine. The rough and tumble aspect of it permanently jumbling up his thoughts and the cleaning aspect of it having wiped him of various memories.

“George, it’s wonderful to see you awake!” the silhouette, rather doctor finally spoke, his tone fond as though he had known him all his life. He had an American accent…

Unsure of what to say at first, the lead guitarist merely nodded, the action as uncertain as his expression, “Ta…er…thanks…” he mumbled lamely.

“My name is Dr. Jamison. You’ve been in my care from the moment you were admitted here.”

Taking in the man’s dominant appearance, George remained quiet. How was it that a man of such an unforgettable caliber had been taking care of him for who knew how long, and it felt he was only seeing him for the first time? It hardly made sense…

“You were in and out of consciousness for some time, George,” Dr. Jamison went on to reveal in his absence of response, the impulsive explanation answering the lead guitarist’s unasked question, “How’re you feeling?”

“Sore allover…” George mumbled without hesitation. He blinked up tiredly at the older man as though willing him to work his magic on him right then and there.

The doctor nodded, calmly taking in the response, “Does your head hurt?”

“A bit…”

“How bad would you currently rate it?”

“Bad…”

“On a scale of 1-10?”

Harrison lapsed into thought, significantly slowing down the automatic-timed answers. “…9.”

Dr. Jamison calmly nodded again as though he’d been expecting such a response, “I’ll increase your pain medication,” He paused to insert a smile, “The good news here is that your temperature has declined significantly since you arrived. It’s now sitting at 102.3. It may be the cause of your aches and pain, though I can’t say for sure if it’s the only cause of your headache. I’ll want to order a brain scan first to check the progress of things.”

“Then can I go home?”

Harrison’s caretaker chuckled lightly, “Ambitious, are we? We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, okay?”

George shrugged, seemingly unconcerned by the avoidance of his question. The doctor could see that he was still terribly exhausted and rightfully so. His body had been through too much… and honestly still had quite a ways to go before anyone could readily deem him out of the woods.

“Let me see first about the pain medication…” the older man stated, “and then I’ll see to your scan.”

George nodded. He was about to turn away and close his wearied eyes in attempt at catching a kip when he suddenly remembered something that had been neglected for far too long. “John…” he mumbled sleepily, “Where’s he? He okay?”

“Ah… your band mate!” Dr. Jamison warmly acknowledged, with something of a tight smile crossing his face, “He’s in the room next door. Doctors are doing their best to fix him up in a manner similar to you. He’s a tough one they say!”

And George found the energy to grin, “The toughest…” he affectionately agreed. Had he been more alert, he might’ve noticed the darkening of the doctor’s eyes as cheerlessness moved in to occupy them. But he wasn’t… and therefore, he didn’t. Ultimately satisfied, his eyes drifted closed shortly after and the refreshing aspect of sleep rushed in to capture him, mind, body, and soul.

As Dr. Jamison slipped away, his entire demeanor rapidly fell away as the onslaught of George’s concerns caught up to him. And in its place arose pensiveness. George Harrison had been asking about John Lennon… And from what he sullenly understood as was relayed to him by the young lad’s doctor, John Lennon was in a coma.


	38. I Want You

Ringo sneezed; his third consecutive sneeze to occur in a matter of seconds. Blinking blearily now, he reached for a box of tissues and proceeded to blow his nose as though he’d never blown it before. From across the sitting room table of their New Jersey suite, Paul blatantly watched; his hazel eyes comically wide in what was easily perceivable as an unnecessary amount of fascination.

Sniffling miserably, the drummer regarded him with growing weariness mixed with exasperation. The bassist had been analyzing his every move going on three days now. Complete overkill when one got down to it. He’d long since begun to feel like some big-name star on the telly rather than the humble drummer for the Beatles. “Haven’t y’got anything better to do than t’watch me every move?” he irritably snapped, finally allowing the unease he’d been keeping in for far too long to show itself, “Cor _blimey_! I’m surprised ye’ ‘aven’t tried t’follow me into the _loo_ yet! Or rather the _bath_!”

Paul shrugged, momentarily guiding his gaze to the wooden table in front of them, “Y’should be grateful that someone’s even thinking of you, y’know,” he quipped with a small smirk, “It jus’ so ‘appens that I care what happens to ye’, nose included. Most blokes would be right grateful to be on the receiving end of such care.”

Ringo was anything but impressed with the revelation and his lackluster expression said exactly that. “Brilliant,” he flatly rolled his eyes, “Could ye’care a little less, then? Yer making me mad with nerves ‘ere! ‘S’not like I’m terribly ill, y’know. I tested negative fer the second time yesterday! If that’s not proof enough that nothing’s wrong, I don’t know what is!”

Paul calmly regarded him, his eyes successfully portraying that he’d be the judge of determining whether or not his mate’s verbalized endorsement proved true. Given what he’d previously seen from Lennon and Harrison, it would be years possibly before he’d ever choose to overlook the health of anyone he cared about. “You’ve been taking yer antibiotics, haven’t you?” the bass player asked.

The drummer rolled his eyes, decisively dismissing his mate’s sincerity. “Yes, mother! I take them at the same time as you every morning! Given me childhood, it’s not a foreign concept, y’know.”

Paul nodded, a small, easy smile finding his face, “Just making sure, love. Better safe than sorry I always say.”

The remaining half of the Beatles, Eppy, and Mal had been given a 14-day course of some sort of antibiotic called Vancomycin and were instructed to take it once _daily_. Lennon and Harrison’s doctors were under the strong impression that it would help to ensure that they didn’t fall prey to the same fate as their hospital-ridden mates. It wasn’t quite fool-proof but any bit of resistance they could manage to grab hold of was better than none at all. Missing a dose was unacceptable and such a mishap if it were to occur would possibly threaten to compromise everything at once.

“Again, if everything I’ve been through in the past several days alone isn’t proof enough that nothing’s out of the ordinary, then I don’t know what is,” Ringo continued to defend himself.

“That’s beside the point,” came Paul’s calm response, “Sick is sick.”

“Sick is _not_ sick!” the drummer retaliated.

Paul remained maddeningly unfazed by his friend’s illness-initiated frustrations. “You ever consider giving in to John and getting insurance on that thing y’call a nose once and fer all?” he casually inquired, mischievous undertone surfacing, “It’s a weapon, y’know. Y’nearly blow me head clean off each time y’bloody well sneeze!”

 _Nose_. It always came down to his bloody nose. Ringo found he was even less impressed than even before, a feat he’d hardly thought possible. “I’ll try harder next time, then,” the drummer grumbled petulantly, eyeing the bassist with fiery eyes sharp enough to pierce a hole in even the toughest of recipients, “And I’ll be sure not t’miss. No head means no gob to annoy me with and no eyes would surely give me the peace of mind I deserve.”

Paul shrugged nonchalantly in reaction to Ringo’s seemingly petty argument, “Okay, Ritchie…” he calmly spoke after a while, “but you’d be all alone then…”

Ringo froze as the realness of the very idea wrapped itself around his brain. Alone. To deal with everything. Alone. _Alone_. What a ghastly word. He turned to Paul once more, an unorthodox mixture of contriteness and forgiveness evident in his pleading eyes, “Scratch that, I won’t allow ye’ to desert me, Paulie…”

Paul smirked at him, but didn’t make a real effort to respond. His gaze on the table once more, he began thinking of other things. John. George. John. George. There was hardly a moment of any given day where his mind didn’t end up here. “Maybe we’ll get to see them tomorrow…” he quietly spoke after a long while of mounting silence.

“Our John and George?” Ringo questioned despite high awareness regarding the obvious.

Paul merely nodded, the brunt of his playful mood drawing to an official end. Initially, he’d considered teasing the drummer about blindly overlooking the blatantly obvious as he sometimes would, but the more he dwelled on such an idea, the less he felt it necessary. Sometimes it took too much effort to draw attention to certain things… _especially_ when it wasn’t that important to begin with.

“It’s been three days, y’know,” Ringo solemnly revealed.

Again, Paul nodded, the gesture this time around much graver than the last. “Three _long_ days,” he emphasized.

They fell into brief silence once more.

Feeling suddenly restless, Ringo began tapping out a lonesome beat on the table in front of them. Paul watched him for a bit before leaning his entire body back into the couch he occupied. He too was restless. Maybe even more so. There’d been this… something… eating at the back of his mind for hours… a feeling… ever ominous. Ever threatening. How Paul hated these feelings when they dared to overtake him. Like a premonition of sorts, rarely were they ever false alarms…

“I’m a bit worried,” the oldest Beatle suddenly blurted out as though suddenly in tune with his younger mate’s thoughts. Sniffling thickly all the while, the drummer hurriedly elaborated on his opening statement, “I mean… Brian’s been on the telephone a long time… and I think it’s the hospital he’s talking to.”

There it was. The portion of topic they’d both been working so hard to avoid. It had sat alongside them for the past fifteen minutes like a depressed elephant taking up the vast majority of the room. Ringo knew that it would only be a matter of time before someone would choose to bring it up. Rather than wait in growing apprehension on Paul to do so, he figured he’d just as well go ahead and take the idea into his own hand… See if he could gather the bassist’s thoughts in the meantime.

“Me too…” McCartney hesitantly went on to admit without sitting up from his newfound position of comfort, “I’m not sure why but I am…” He inserted a frown into his side of the conversation, “I… had a dream last night… rather a nightmare, actually…” Had that been the source of the ominous feelings he’d been unenthusiastically harboring? He had never been able to track down such unknown origins… Never could. These feelings… they just happened, no rhyme or reason attached…

“And?” Ringo coughed heavily into his fist as he somewhat impatiently awaited McCartney’s explanation.

“I was…uh… John and I were sitting face to face on a bed as we used t’do when we were younger…” Eyes taking on a far-off glint, he chuckled fondly at the unfinished memory as though it were transpiring right before them, “We’d always write songs that way, y’know.  When we were younger especially… Guitars in each our laps… the whole nine yards…”

Ringo nodded in patient understanding. “There will be plenty more yet where that came from, y’know,” he optimistically reminded him, seemingly for the main purpose of highlighting the fact that the magic was far from over. Sure current circumstances found John to be in a bad way… but the drummer was determined to think that the rhythm guitarist would be back with them in no time, and that the songwriting duo would once more be allowed to take up where they left off like the old times they’d often find themselves longing for.

“There will be…” Paul echoed. And at that, the bass player managed a tiny smile, letting it dwell on his handsome yet troubled features before continuing on with his narrative, “For a while, everything was going swimmingly… and suddenly, he froze.”

“Froze?” the bass player’s older companion echoed, his blue eyes narrowing in confusion as he sought out elaboration, “John?”

“He jus’ went completely still. And when I called out to him, he wouldn’t answer. He wouldn’t look at me even. It was as though I wasn’t even there,” Paul momentarily paused as though for the sheer purpose of gathering his thoughts, “And when I reached out to touch him, my hand went right through him… Next thing I know, I’m flat on the floor… And…” He swallowed hard, “…as I looked back up to the bed… there was no trace of John… not even his guitar. Just a tombstone… with his name on it… I couldn’t make out the year… but it was there…” With a pronounced shudder, he looked to Ringo as he finished talking, carefully gauging his reaction.

The drummer stared back; eyes so wide, they looked ready to tumble from their sockets. “Morbid, that!” he commented, tentative demeanor attached, “Perhaps, ye’should get _yer_ ‘ead checked next…” He’d meant it as a joke to lighten the darkening mood but McCartney didn’t laugh.

Instead he sighed, his humorless eyes dropping to his lap. He rubbed at his arms trying to ward off the icy, fear-induced chill that had settled within him. “Me ‘ead hurts jus’ thinking about it… Skip the exam and throw me right into a padded room instead,” he muttered with ample disgust directed at no one other than himself lining the statement.

“Over me dead body!” Ringo quickly disagreed, “Mad or not, y’don’t get t’run off that easily. We’re a team, y’know. And each other, _with_ the addition of Eppy and Mal, is all we have now to make ends meet so far away from home… And until Johnny and Georgie return, it’s important that we—” His voice trailed off abruptly as he caught movement out of his left eye. He didn’t need to turn to learn who was responsible. It was quite obvious that Brian was off the telephone and had come looking for them with some sort of news… And judging by the way he currently fidgeted, playing idly with the watch on his wrist, good news seemed highly unlikely.

“Brian…” Paul was the first to verbally acknowledge him, turning toward him with uncontrollably somber hazel eyes, “What’s going on?”

“Paul…” Brian nodded at him before doing the same to Ringo, “Ritch…” Eye contact was limited. Another bad sign.

“Everything all right, then?” Ringo dared to ask next, his own eyes searching his manager’s for answers.

And Brian’s stoic persona slipped up right then, allowing the two Beatles a brief glimpse into how he was really feeling. In just a small amount of time, they’d managed to catch a wide array of emotion as they leaked uncontrollably from his unshielded eyes. Fear. Concern. Emptiness. Confusion. All in that order, the first being the most prominent. Neither one of the Beatles was sure which was the most worrying…

Right away they longed for that comforting mask to slip back into place. Like a protective barrier of sorts, it held the harshness of reality at bay; helping the band to remain trapped within a false sense of security reminiscent of a coveted fairytale realm. Made them likely to believe that everything was fine. Even if it wasn’t. The Beatles knew from prolonged experience that few things had what it took to successfully penetrate the fortress that was Epstein’s well-known professionalism… And they were able to honestly conclude from rare displays that a Brian stripped bare and raw was never anything anyone should ever hope to come across.

With surfacing dread, the presenting half of the Beatles were now completely certain that their lives were about to come apart yet again… possibly even permanently. Perhaps, it was this revelation that brought a tremor to Paul’s very demeanor. Perhaps, it was this revelation that brought an impending sense of doom like a storm cloud to Ringo’s previously prominent sunny outlook. Something was wrong… and once again as a direct result nothing was right.

Ringo clenched a fist in uncharacteristic apprehension. Where the bloody hell was the reset button? Why couldn’t he refresh their very lives? Go back in time to make sure none of this happened in the first place? If only he could’ve convinced John to take better care of himself… To not treat his body like it was resilient to endless stress, lack of sleep… alcohol intake… and whatever the hell else he’d been up to lately… Then maybe he wouldn’t have been so susceptible to such an awful virus…  It was such a nasty, frustrating habit Lennon had acquired since peak fame; remaining aloof whether purposely or not to his body’s own wants and needs… It was no wonder he was always sick or on the verge of getting sick… And poor Harrison, always likely to pick up any virus that had managed to penetrate their band… His immune system was probably lacking in some way.

Ringo glanced briefly at Paul, attempting to read into his feelings on everything they were being faced with. Paul’s face was blank. Unreadable. Yet oddly knowing… _Christ_ … the drummer shuddered in direct reaction to this. Something had struck their boat, he was realizing… and no longer able to stay afloat they were treading water… They were sinking fast. Losing control…

“Brian…” the drummer prodded for the second time, eager yet not to gather some sort of knowledge of the unfamiliar, untouched upon topic. His voice quavered noticeably as he went to speak again, “E-everything all right?”

“…No… not everything…” the manager admitted slowly, sealing fears into place with just those three words.

Twin looks of utmost alarm, stared back at him.

“George is doing quite well, actually,” the manager went on to profess, his distress filled gaze moving about the room, focusing on nothing in particular, “He’s still quite ill I hear, but he’s becoming more coherent all the time. Doctors believe that in a few days, if everything continues the way it’s been, he might be recovered enough for discharge.”

Ringo’s eyes lit up with resulting exhilaration, “Really?” came his hopeful response, “That’s great, Eppy!!Why aren’t you happy, then? It’s good news, isn’t it? Everything we’ve been waiting fer in regards to our Georgie!!”

Brian stared vacantly at him.

 _‘Please let that be all the news there is…’_ Ringo’s mind began chanting as he stared back, the surfacing thought appearing to be nothing more than a coping mechanism, _‘Please let there be nothing wrong… Let Eppy’s disturbing mannerisms be nothing more than a fluke… Let all the negative occurrences be nothing more than a fluke!’_

“Yes… yes it is…” Brian distantly admitted; taking a brief moment to embrace the happy note brought on by the happy news… “But I’m _afraid_ …”

“…It’s not all the news, you ‘ave…” Paul found himself mechanically supplying as the brunt of the Beatles’ manager’s words met an untimely end.

Ringo looked sharply to his band mate suddenly coming to terms with something. He _knew_. Bloody hell… McCartney _knew_ … Somehow he _always_ did…

Brian gravely nodded, still avoiding all sources of eye contact.

“It’s John… isn’t it?” Paul knowingly deciphered, verifying Ringo’s assumptions. The bass player bristled. If it wasn’t George it was John. And lately it was _always_ John. Christ. Why couldn’t they _both_ be better already? Why couldn’t the Beatles just be whole again?

Furtively clenching both his fists as though to eliminate all stubborn traces of grief and anxiety, he mentally braced himself for the destructive news he knew he would never be prepared enough to hear. Eyes steadily fixed and noncommittal, the bassist faced his manager with constructed courage… or rather a façade of said courage, “What’s he gotten into now?” he demanded, his tone even.

Epstein felt colder than ice… and irreversibly numb as a result. “He… _Lennon_ suffered another seizure an hour ago…”

“ _Another_?!” Ringo irrepressively butt in, his normally blue eyes fading to grey with prevalent worry, “Is he _okay_?!”

Paul stood quietly beside him, visibly trembling now with fear and trepidation. His own hazel eyes were nearly dark brown with ongoing apprehensions.

To both the Beatles’ confirmed horror, their manager went on to shake his head, the foreboding action rigid and stiff. “He… John’s… _Lennon’s_ … _He’s_ … …” No matter how he chose to put it, the words wouldn’t come any easier. His brain was still reluctant to utter such words for fear that it would make it all the more real. “…He’s… fallen into a coma…”

Paul’s eyes were wild now with newly forming glistening tears. “This is a joke!” he firmly insisted, keeping his voice steady. He momentarily looked to Ringo for a source of conformity, “Right?” he sought out. When Ringo only stared blankly at him, his face frozen in shock, the bassist hurriedly turned back to Brian, “Yer having us on?” he quickly questioned. He sounded less sure of himself than even before. But still he kept on prodding. Still he kept on moving. He kept constant… because if he were to stop… it would all sink in… and the reality of the situation would be imminent.

Epstein rigidly shook his head as though his neck consisted of faulty, rusty gears. “I wish I was… boys…”

Paul wasn’t hearing him. Paul _couldn’t_ hear him. He wasn’t ready to accept such bollocks… He simply couldn’t do it. “ _Tell_ me it’s a fucking joke!” he pleaded, “Tell me I didn’t know about this. Tell me I’m all wrong and I’ve been wrong all along!!!”

Brian shook his head, the only action he seemed capable of completing. “I can’t…”

“Then what good are ye’?!” Paul turned and without warning stormed from the room out of sight and out of mind.

“Paul!” Ringo called after him.

There was no answer.

The drummer did the only thing that remotely made sense by this point. He took off after him, knowing not how the future would proceed to play out. For John… for George… for Paul… for anyone.

“You all right?” he quietly asked once he’d caught up with Paul in their bedroom. The bassist was seated on his bed, his entire being heavy with a level of despair that had become much too rampant for their group lately.

Paul looked up at him. His eyes were wet, glossing his hazel eyes with a heart-breaking shine of melancholy. “I don’t know…” he mumbled hesitantly. There was no characteristic confidence backing up his words… As was sometime inevitable when loved ones of the closest caliber were in a bad way, he was losing the hope he’d fought so hard to hang on to. “I feel I’m losing him…”

“John?”

Paul’s eyes narrowed with brief impatience, “ _Brian_ , Ring…” was his snide, snappish, sarcastic response, “Who th’fuck do y’think?”

Ringo blushed, “I-I know, Paul… I’m just helping the conversation along…”

The bass player’s eyes fell to his lap in slight regret. Snapping at the only other Beatle in his vicinity wasn’t the answer here. “Right. Sorry… love… I’m just… I don’t really know what else to do…” He sniffled heavily in dramatic punctuation of his sentence.

Ringo’s face softened as he took a seat beside Paul. “Me neither…” he reluctantly admitted. This revelation startled the daylights out of him. Sure fate had been out of their hands from the very beginning… But now the idea felt even more prominent… Like there was no escaping it. It felt… like… they were losing one of their best mates. It ominously felt like… Lennon was… dying…

Ringo wanted to scream. He wanted to drop to the ground. Throw a tantrum… Cry… Punch walls… But… he couldn’t dare afford to give into the overwhelming feelings and their profound demands. Paul needed him to remain at full strength… He needed him to help keep him sane… Keeping sane was the general rule here. And in order to maintain said sanity, they needed each other now more than ever…

Paul was sobbing now, his entire body quivering uncontrollably with convulsive whimpers and wails. It broke the drummer in two. Tore his heart to shreds. Solemnly and with nary a word, he turned to the younger Beatle and embraced him in the softest yet most secure hug he could manage to give. “Go ‘ead, Paulie,” he whispered soothingly as he tightly held him, “Let it all out…”

“We’re losing Johnny… aren’t we, Ring?” the bassist whimpered into his chest.

“God… I hope not…” was Ringo’s only response as he held Paul close. He tightly closed his eyes against a river of tears threatening to escape his own eyes, “I _really_ hope not…” he quietly repeated.


	39. You've Got to Hide Your Love Away

Rain struck the window with impossible strength. Like mini fists of anger and despair, it pounded against the building with all the wrath of a hurricane. It was raining again. Something it had been doing more often than not since…since… Try as he might, the dark-haired, normally outwardly-composed manager couldn’t remember the last time he’d even _seen_ the sun shine. Even on those stray days while it had been shining seemingly with all its might and glory, it had somehow been dark.

In one way or another, the Beatles… he and Mal… They’d all been victim to ongoing stresses… dreariness… doom… eternal darkness. And as a result, depression. All Epstein could really recall on this gloomiest of days was that somehow sunshine of the realest quality corresponded with the happier days of the past. Before the onset of disaster. Before all the sporadic madness. Before Lennon’s frightening collapse. Before Harrison’s unexpected hospitalization. Before Lennon’s… unnatural… coma… Now it was all dark. Dark like the threatening starless night spread fast across the horizon.

Sitting in his chair just inside the large window that held the depressing night’s weather on continuous display, Brian visibly shuddered at the atypical idea of John Lennon being in a coma. Had such wording not come from a doctor, he was certain he wouldn’t have believed it. As talented as Lennon was. As blunt. As mischievous. As cynical. As funny. As cruel. As boisterous. As raw. As beautiful… As _alive_ as he was… it just didn’t seem plausible. The kind of thing seemed it should only happen to those that were half brain dead to begin with. Not John. Not his— _the Beatles’_ John. John in peak form was much too lively a human being! He had this uncanny way of remaining aloof at times where others were concerned, but when the moment was just right, he could easily make one feel as though they were the only person in the room. As though they were truly special. It was the same experience when he unguardedly sang, his soul bared for all to see. In these rawest of moments, Lennon was truly captivating. Truly riveting. Such an outcome regarding such a person just didn’t seem fair!! None of this was. It was outright maddening. It was horrible! It just wasn’t fair in the least bi—

“Brian, are you all right?”

Pulling his eyes away from the muted extent of the outside world, the manager jolted to full attention at the gentle touch of a hand on his shoulder. Gentle hands. Hands gentle like John’s often were when lost in his musical world of rhythm guitar. The manager shuddered again and sighed, allowing his eyes to fall momentarily closed before forcing himself to face his insistent pursuer.

“Brian,” the voice prodded again, sounding much more urgent the second time around. How frustrating. Why couldn’t he just be left alone?

“I-I’m fine, John… er… Mal…” he managed to choke out. He opened his eyes finally, his tired gaze lifting up to the stern, concerned face of the Beatles’ road manager. “I’m fine,” he confirmed more firmly as though to solidify his words.

Mal shook his head, solely unconvinced. “You’re exhausted, Brian. We need to get back to our suites. It’s late.”

The road manager moved towards the window rushing to shut the curtains that Brian had recklessly drawn back for a rare gaze into the outdoors, “And these shouldn’t be open either, y’know,” he additionally chastised, “You realize you’re probably contributing to mayhem in the streets, don’t you? And you of all people, considering the fact that it’s _your_ guideline to begin with, should know better…”

“It’s not so late, really…” Brian absently mumbled, disregarding the admonishment he’d been on the receiving end of altogether. He glanced down to his watch, half-expecting it to be no later than 8:30. After all, it wasn’t in his nature to sit in one place for much longer than necessary. 10:15 the hands illuminated with unforgiving realness. The manager blinked back shock and refocused his gaze on his watch’s face once again. Perhaps, he’d gotten the hands mixed up in all his fatigue. To his immediate horror, it read the same.

He looked back up at Mal, his eyes wide with surprise. How was it that it was nearly half past ten already? That would mean he’d been sitting by the window… in his chair… dreaming the night away for nearly two hours. How could that be? And while locked in his trance, the sun had set… and darkness had moved in… all while he sat there blind to it all. Except the sun _hadn’t_ set. Not really. As far as the day had gone, never had there been a sun. And quite possibly, _never_ would there be one ever again.

“It is,” Mal countered, looking down at him, sympathy evident in his eyes. He gestured over to Paul and Ringo closed in around the dining room table a few feet away. Since the evening had set in, the two had been lost in the endless throes of some disorganized, half-arsed game of cards. It seemed they played on so they wouldn’t have to think. It seemed they played on because if they were to stop, the vindictive authenticity of the situation would officially set in. “We should all be in bed,” the roadie wisely went on to affirm, “Where stress is concerned, sleep is the only true repairing agent.”

Eppy didn’t respond. Maybe his tongue wasn’t worthy of having any say at the moment… All he could do was dwell on the fact that John was in a coma… and it was because of _him_.

“Brian?” Mal continued to prod.

Nothing…

“For Christ’s sake, Brian,” Mal sighed; exhaustion-fueled frustration getting the better of him as he frenetically waved a hand in his face, “what’s gotten into you?”

Brian blinked and refocused his gaze on him. “Hm?”

The road manager frowned in return, picking up right then on the dullness of his eyes as well as the less noticeable but still present shiny glaze of un-fallen tears hugging them. Was he sad? Or ill? Or both? It was uncharacteristic of him to remain still for long periods of time, regardless. Striving to overlook nothing as they simply couldn’t afford another blossoming tragedy, Mal drew closer to him until he was perched at eye-level. “What’s the matter?” he elaborated.

“Whatever do you mean?” Epstein carefully articulated, bemusement beginning to plague his elegant features.

“Are you well?” Mal found himself asking as concern, extensive as the trials of the day had called for, began to surface within him.

“What?” Eppy blinked again, finally allowing for the roadie’s words to find their place within the realm of sense and meaning. Why was he asking such a thing now of all times? They’d been tested forever ago it seemed, and all of them had been officially rendered as fine. “I’m fine, Mal…You know that! Everything’s fine… I wouldn’t be here otherwise…” he responded with quiet softness.

“You’re sure?”

Eppy nodded, a small smile finding his face. “Don’t be absurd… I’m fine. Everything’s fine.” No, he wasn’t feeling ill. Only John. Only George. And it was _all_ his fault. Everything was _not_ fine. Not even remotely so.

“So we’re all fine, then…” Mal mumbled absently, drifting back to his tall stance, his words becoming one with the background as he did so. “Becoming less fine by the moment, however…”

He turned to look again at Paul and Ringo. Paul, visibly tensed up was grumbling something inaudibly while an exhausted looking Ringo sneezed, the two together confirming a point forming in his head. “If we don’t factor in sleep, we’re all likely to fall ill in one form or another… regardless of whether or not we’ve been cleared free of illness,” he stated, turning to address everyone as a whole, “Stress is the leading cause to illness, y’know.”

“Well it’s too late fer me…” Ringo absently spoke, drumming a hand distractedly on the surface of the table as he lazily waited for McCartney to take his turn. His eyes silently goaded him, telling the bassist to hurry up. He didn’t wish to be still any longer than he had to be. Stillness was the silent usher to thought. And thought was the enemy.

“That may be so,” Brian piped up, showering his worn gaze upon Ringo, “But Mal’s right. It doesn’t change the fact that you boys need your rest.”

“Well, I don’t see _you_ attempting to take his advice,” Paul raised his eyes to the manager, his eyes passionate yet bleak.

“There’s no need to raise your voice, Paul,” Mal sternly stepped in, coming rapidly to Epstein’s defense, “The advice goes for all of us.”

“Well, who can sleep, anyroad?” Paul sharply muttered, the acquired edge to his voice signaling blatant aversion to the very idea, “In case y’lot didn’t realize, John’s in a fucking coma, y’know.”

“…And what if he doesn’t wake up?” Ringo added, an uncontrollable frown eating away at his face, as he spoke, “And what if George should fall into a coma next?” The words having escaped from his mouth in accidental measure, he looked to Paul as though it were entirely his fault, “Take yer turn, would ye’ Macca?!” he hastily snapped, glaring fiercely at him, “All this waiting around’s making me think too much. And I don’t wish to think anymore than I should have to…”

“I don’t wish t’think anymore than you should have to either,” came Paul’s indignant response, “Christ, Ritch… ‘s’not all about you, y’know. Last I checked, this was a Beatles’ affair not a mere product of the ‘Ringo Show’.”

“Well, it never is, is it?” Ringo bitterly retorted, momentarily giving into the idea that would occasionally surface regarding his feelings of being constantly overshadowed. But just as quickly as the thought had made itself known, he waved it off, dismissing it permanently from his tired mind. Vocalizing such an opinion would only serve to spawn a pointless row… and the drummer most certainly wasn’t in the mood for anything of the like. It certainly wouldn’t help anyone’s state of mind either. “It doesn’t bloody matter. Jus’ take yer turn, y’sod.”

Mal could sense the mounting tension long before it was readily evident. “Okay,” he raised his voice with much needed authority, “That’s enough, boys.” He reached for the table and snatched up the deck of playing cards without warning, leaving the lads with what was left in their hands, “Off to bed now.”

“ _Bed_? There’s nothing there but our thoughts, y’know!” the drummer was the first to whine.

“You’ll have to face them at some point,” Mal responded. He hadn’t meant to come off so callously but the fact of the matter seemed to call for it. Everyone was on edge and what was left of their collective sanity was at stake.

Paul heaved a small groan and brought a hand to his forehead massaging it. He’d been battling a headache all evening. Probably a result of stress.

Neither Ringo nor Mal failed to notice the action, furtive as it was.

Perceptive as always, Mal took a step towards him. “Feeling all right, Paul?” he asked, much worry evident in the statement.

Paul looked briefly startled at the roadie’s unexpected engagement in him before managing a slight nod. “Yeah… me head jus’ hurts a bit.”

And Mal was upon him like a spider to a fly, a hand spreading across the bassist’s forehead. “Well, y’don’t seem to be running any sort of fever,” he professed after a while, some relief evident in his voice, “Your throat doesn’t hurt does it?”

Paul shook his head, “No…” he mumbled, “I rather think it’s a result of everything going on.”

Ample sternness reclaimed the roadie’s face, “That and you’re probably tired. Take something before bed if you will and call it a night.”

“Do we have anything to take?” Paul asked hopefully.

“There’s some aspirin in the bathroom medicine cabinet,” Mal pointed out, “I made sure to restock as John, George, and even Ringo,” he eyed the drummer, “had the last bit.” He paused contemplatively, eyes still on Ringo, “There’s some cold medicine in there for you as well, Ring.”

Ringo nodded looking thankful at the revelation, “Ta, Mal! I’ll be sure t’take some tonight!” he eagerly replied.

Mal looked longingly at him, “You’d better.” He turned finally towards the door with an air of finality, “Do what needs to be done,” he added, “But don’t be long. Rest is more important now than ever.”

He beckoned to Brian who rose from his chair reluctantly, Ringo’s words still ringing incessantly through his mind. _‘…And what if he doesn’t wake up?’_  the drummer’s words had echoed repetitively seemingly on a loop, _‘ ...And what if George should fall into a coma next?_ ’  The manager sighed as an answer formulated within the confines of his hampered mind. _‘It would be my fault entirely…’_ he mentally concluded, the thought laden with sadness. With an even heavier sigh, his eyes fell to his feet. He’d feel this guilt… probably forever.

“John’ll be all right, y’know,” Mal spoke up, eyeing the manager carefully. He broadened his gaze to the others, “They _both_ will be,” he emphasized, “Right as rain in no time at all.”

Brian merely nodded. _Right like the rain that had been falling ever since…_ Moving robotically, he made his way slowly towards the door.

As Mal moved to follow him, he turned only briefly to look behind him, the remaining two Beatles falling into his line of vision for the last time that night. “Sleep,” he commanded; his tone sincere and pressing.

“I’ll need a smoke beforehand,” Ringo flippantly asserted, pausing to stifle a cough. He looked to Paul who quietly nodded, discarding his hand of cards finally to the smooth surface of the table. Ringo mirrored his actions.

Mal was blatantly frustrated by this point. “It doesn’t matter what you choose to do. Just do so quickly and for Christ’s sake… get some sleep soon after!”

Ringo quickly dissolved into the act of removing some paraphernalia from his pants pocket and set it down on the table. Then he went to immediate work at rolling a much needed joint. Paul looked on, wondering vaguely if he should roll his own or if Ringo would seem keen on sharing. Pausing in his work as though sensing his dilemma as the observant drummer often would, Ringo raised his gaze, instilling brief eye-contact. “Ours,” was all he said.

And just like that, a small smile found Paul’s lips. This was perfect. Exactly what was needed to help take the edge off before they’d dare tackle the idea of bed, “Yer a bloody genius, Ring,” he beamed gratefully.

“A smart Beatle in the making,” Ringo smiled back and in that very instant, all that had been surfacing between them was forgiven and forgotten.

There was a scuffle in their vicinity as the managers made their moves towards the suite’s exit. Soon enough, the boys would be left to their own devices. Paul was actually relieved. Brian’s brooding mood alone had been fueling half his depression, the other half stemming from… the news on John…

A match was produced and shoved at Paul along with the newly formed joint. The bass player took it without hesitation and proceeded to light it with perfectly honed skill. Then hungrily, he brought it to his lips taking the deepest hit he could readily muster. The smoke filled his lungs and within a blissful second, the tension melted off. Even his headache had lessened somewhat. He passed the joint back to Ringo who took a hit of his own. The look of liberation on his face was priceless. The drummer coughed once and handed the joint back to Paul.

Paul took it and skeptically looked the drummer up and down, “If y’so much as get me sick, I’ll cripple ye’,” he teased.

“Me germs are too good fer ye’, anyroad,” Ringo chuckled good-naturedly, “We’ve shared several joints and you’ve yet to fall ill.”

“Well, I suppose _one_ of us should remain healthy…” Paul mused aloud matter-of-factly as he took his hit. He fell into what appeared to be deep thought, his mind trailing off to other things. “Frightening isn’t it?” he asked after a little bit of time had passed.

“What?”

“John.”

Ringo laughed hollowly, “Well t’be completely ‘onest, Lennon’s always been a bit frightening…” _The most frightening person in the world sometimes when the situation properly fit…_

“Well yes…” Paul couldn’t help laughing himself, “That he is…” He looked thoughtful once again. John Lennon was a scary, beautifully, imperfect disaster. Always had been… always would be… It was the brunt of his persona in a nutshell. What could it possibly be like for all of that to just stop? For John… For always moving, headstrong, ever-present John to just stop. Lapse into stillness… Fade into nothing. McCartney shuddered at the very proposal. The very idea seemed reminiscent of trying to capture a restless gust of wind in a jar. Lennon was that restless wind. The coma was the jar. The rhythm guitarist simply couldn’t be held down… He couldn’t be contained. Which was why his situation couldn’t possibly be real. Though it had been days since illness had set in for Lennon… and for Harrison, none of it seemed remotely any realer now than it had then.

“Christ… I miss them…” Ringo blurted out, abruptly breaking the silence that had momentarily fallen. The silence that had befallen them like it had befallen John. Lies, that… _Lies_. It wasn’t remotely real. It couldn’t be, “I wish they were here. I _want_ them to be here.” More so _needed_ it.

“Me too…” Paul whispered. When would it all return to normal? How he longed for the norm. How he longed for the simplicity of the past. Would it have been too much to ask for the tour to carry on as it should’ve? Would it have been too much to ask for nothing to have gone wrong in the first place?

Ringo took a hit of the joint before passing it off to McCartney. “What do you suppose it’s like?”

“What?” Paul brought the joint to his lips and inhaled deeply.

The drummer stifled a yawn as he watched the bassist’s technique intently. “A coma…” he ominously revealed.

Paul studied him, his hazel eyes solemn and serious, “Well, don’t you remember? Weren’t you in one before?”

Ringo looked thoughtful. “Well, yeah… but… it’s sort of hard to remember… like a distant dream…”

Paul shook his head with a dismissive shrug, expelling air all over the place like a chimney flue, “…For the record, I should hope I never have to find out, really. I don’t envy any of you one bit.”

Ringo nodded, receiving the joint from Paul, “It is what it is…” he softly uttered, “…Poor Johnny. I hope he’ll be all right…”

“He has to be,” Paul quickly responded, a serious glint conforming to his eyes, “I’ll kill him meself if he’s not.”

Ringo stared hard at him, his blue eyes speaking volumes all their own, “I’d laugh… only I don’t think yer putting me on…”

“I’m not,” Paul truthfully confirmed.

“Right…” Ringo added a bit tentatively. An awkward silence prevailed only to be interrupted once again courtesy of the drummer, “Let’s try and talk about something happier then, yeah?” he urgently insisted, “Are we not the optimistic half of the Beatles ‘ere?”

Paul laughed, the sound rich and genuine and entirely too rare of late, “I suppose then that between the two of us, we should be able to dig _something_ up.”

“Surely, we haven’t lost that much of ourselves in all this,” Ringo agreed.

“Well _I’ve_ certainly lost more than I’ve gained…” Paul absently responded.

He was greeted by a sharp look courtesy of his older mate, “See?” the drummer abruptly pointed out, gesturing to the very air in front of them in a highly spirited way, “It’s depressing sentences like that that has got us trapped in such a state.”

Paul opened his mouth and quickly closed it unsure of what to say, “Sorry…?” he uttered after a while.

Ringo laughed. “Don’t apologize, Macca… just cut the bollocks and help me spread a bit of positivity. It’s the only way we’ll make it through in one piece.”

Together they got to thinking and eventually they got to talking some more. They talked as though they knew that everything would eventually improve. They talked as though good things were inevitably in store.

For two more hours the two Beatles sat awake addressing the ways of the world, smoking joint after joint. It was a little after midnight when they finally abided to Mal’s orders, slipping off to the comfort of their beds.


	40. Day Tripper

The rhythm guitarist sat up in his bed bathed in slight relief, and cast a wary look about him. Surrounding him, as far as his eyes could see, were four highly reflective pristine white walls; indicating a room of sorts, and a chaotic assortment of some sort of high-end medical equipment, indicating a hospital. The overhead light descending down from the ceiling flickered sporadically, giving the very atmosphere an odd sense of desertion and abandonment. Taking it all in at once was frightfully overwhelming; making the Beatle’s head hurt something terrible as he struggled to process his predicament. Or perhaps it was already hurting to begin with… Strangely enough, he couldn’t remember even five minutes ago… if there even _was_ a five minutes ago. _What a peculiar thing to consider… To even think up for that matter…_

And what was this about him being in a bloody cot? Lennon frowned. Mimi had warned him about not wearing his glasses… and now he was lost in some hospital, not even sure if he was in England anymore. This eerily clean and sterile environment surrounding him felt every bit hostile… resentful… as though he didn’t belong… As though he were much too dirty a human being to coexist with such elements. This didn’t feel like home… It felt like exile.

Perhaps, his father had finally collected him… and brought him away… possibly to New Zealand as he’d initially promised some time ago… or perhaps, his mother had swept him off to Blackpool as forbidden by his aunt. John loved Julia’s company regardless of what Mimi wanted him to think. Rebellious and lively, she’d always made him feel alive… like the energetic rock and roll tunes they’d often spend countless hours listening to. Like the rock and roll music she’d permanently bled into his soul. She was the reason he was famous. She was the reason he strived for a place among the greats… Greats like Buddy Holly… Elvis… Chuck Berry… The Shirelles…

She’d also taught him how to play the banjo and even the piano, directly aiding the start of his skiffle band better known as ‘The Quarrymen’ which consisted initially of his best childhood schoolmate Pete Shotton and some other members of their close-knit neighborhood ‘gang’. And with the helpful experience under his belt, the then seventeen-year-old Lennon had eventually crossed paths with fifteen-year-old McCartney at the Liverpool fete after the intrigued bassist had seen him and his band play live… After seeing Paul play himself, John had recognized his talent on instant. They’d become inseparable since, McCartney aiding to fine-tune his standard ability, helping him to properly apply it to guitar with much more flair and finesse. Somewhere in there, McCartney had joined the band, eventually introducing him to the even younger George Harrison who Lennon had at first been reluctant to let into the band. After seeing his guitar ability, he eventually relented, letting the kid in. The rest eventually fell into place albeit sloppily on occasion and soon the beginnings of history had come to be…

“Where are we going, boys?” John would crow in anticipation.

“To the toppermost of the poppermost!” his band mates would call back in response, appropriately setting the tone for the trials that then lay ahead.

And what trials they had been… _Late nights… Prellies… Live performances… The Cavern Club… The Top Ten… Hamburg… Alcohol… Grotty sleeping conditions… Various venues… Stu Sutcliffe… Paul McCartney… George Harrison… Pete Best… Ringo Starr… Brian Epstein… Neil Aspinall… Mal Evans… George Martin… Abbey Road… The making of their first album: Please Please Me… Lennon-McCartney… The completion of their first film: A Hard Day’s Night… Press conferences… General publicity at its finest… General publicity at its worst…_ All of it had played a part of reaching the toppermost of the poppermost…

The uncalled for series of memories, having taken on a life of their own, ended abruptly leaving behind a stronger sense of abandonment. A stronger sense of loneliness. John was beginning to realize that he missed his mates. He missed his family. Why did it feel as though it had been years since he’d seen them last? What was the top without another living soul to share it with?

The door to his room swung open right then, revealing a shorter man swathed in a lab coat that seemed much too big for him. At first all Lennon could bare to do was stare at him, his eyes wide. But all at once, recognition kicked in.

“Ringo?” he questioned, unable to keep the attached confusion from escaping the mouth of his outwardly puzzled face, “What are y’doing here?”

“You were lonely,” the drummer responded with a grin, “Naturally, I thought I’d pay you a visit!” He mock pouted, a display John was almost oddly sure he’d never see again, “Aren’t y’happy t’see me, love?”

John blinked at him, still unable to grab hold of the fact that his mate was here in person. “Well… yeah… I was beginning t’think I was all alone…”

Ringo furrowed his eyebrows as he took him in, “And jus’ when I thought y’couldn’t become any more selfish!” he playfully scolded, “All alone? _Never_!!” He turned towards the door he’d just entered through and gestured for someone else waiting patiently on the wings to enter.

Lennon’s jaw dropped as in sauntered Paul and George looking as though they owned the place. Paul, strangely enough, was sharply dressed, to his fullest and finest, in a suit looking as though he’d just gotten off the stage and George was clad in a hospital gown much like he himself was.

George grinned when he saw John, “Blimey, we match!!” he felt the need to announce with an airof delight, pointing at his mate’s hospital gown.

John frowned in ample disgust as he took in his own outfit, “I reckon we’ve lost our taste over time…” he muttered flatly. He looked to Ringo and then Paul. “Where are y’sods coming from, anyroad? And what’re y’wearing?”

Paul suddenly looked much older to John and he found he had to do a double-take while taking him in. His hair was a bit longer now and he even had the beginnings of what looked like facial hair on that slightly aged face of his. What had he missed? How long had he been in the bloody hospital? And had Paul looked this old when he’d glimpsed him last?

“I just got off the stage,” Paul casually explained to him, his eyes glimmering with pride, “With me band!”

“But… I’ve been stuck _here_ , Paul…” John frowned, his eyes purely bemused, “Surely, y’didn’t go on without me?”

Paul’s eyes narrowed with sudden bitterness as they met John’s. “Don’t be soft, Lennon! It’s _my_ band, y’know!”

Lennon frowned, feeling hopelessly confused by this point… not to mention vaguely annoyed with McCartney’s unanticipated attitude. “…What band are ye’ on about?” _Surely_ , he didn’t mean the Beatles.

And to his surprise Paul laughed, coldly and callously, “Not the Beatles, that’s fer sure!” he told John, a condescending sneer coming into his hardened voice, “They haven’t been around for ages!”

“Ages?” John echoed, “But…”

“Years,” George calmly elaborated. He looked strangely unfazed by Paul’s shocking revelation and John couldn’t help but vaguely wonder what ‘band’ he’d chosen to get involved with.

Situated in the background behind Paul and Ringo, he’d had almost forgotten the lead guitarist too had been present. Taking him in now, he was aware of one thing. Harrison like Paul looked years older… Not like… how he had… before…  However _that_ had been… The rhythm guitarist rubbed tiredly at his eyes, struggling to piece it all together… Bloody hell… hadn’t he any memories? This was getting ridiculous…

“Not since you died!” Ringo insensitively went on to inform John. He too suddenly looked older. “Thanks for that by the way, love! Y’really helped me get me priorities straight!” The drummer gestured at his outfit looking just as proud as Paul earlier had.

John’s bewildered face transformed into a full portrayal of incredulity as he took in his older mate, “Y’ _cant_ be a doctor, Ringo!” he protested, his own tone taking on a hint of arrogance as it often would when being brutally honest, “Yer a _drummer_ , y’know! And a mediocre one at best!”

Ringo grinned at him, strangely unaffected by the embedded insult, “That’s _Dr_. Ringo, Johnny!” he proudly emphasized; frantically gesturing to his nametag as though it contained everything he’d needed to achieve such an elegant status.

And Lennon sat back in his bed, officially lost for words. What good was he if he couldn’t even get a proper rise out of his mates?

“I’ve been in yer footsteps, y’know,” the drummer casually went on to inform his younger mate, his bright blue eyes darkening drastically with enhanced solemnity as he took him in.

“And how is that?” John demanded; challenge tinted with blatant annoyance rising without hesitance within his voice.

“Well, yer in a com—”

“Quiet, Rings!” George hurriedly stepped in to interrupt him, “You’ll compromise _everything_!”

And the drummer/doctor broke out into a bit of a sheepish laugh, “…Right… I almost forgot.”

“Some doctor you are,” Paul snorted with a laugh of his own.

“I’m a _great_ doctor, McCartney!” Ringo found the need to emphasize, pointing again at his cherished nametag. He glared at Paul a bit of uncharacteristic arrogance seeping into the decidedly derisive action, “You _musicians_ wouldn’t know a thing about it!”

Officially lost for words, Lennon sat back in his bed looking now as startled as he was bemused. As it turned out, he had nothing more to say. There was nothing more to say for this… whatever it was unraveling before him… It didn’t make sense. It didn’t seem logical… Nothing was the way it was supposed to be… or… was it?

“Don’t look so confused, Johnny,” Paul gently told him, his expression finally softening with sympathy reminiscent of his usual self, “This is merely an alternate life… You must make an effort if y’wish to find yer own.”

John blinked at him, perpetually and irreversibly confused by this point. “Me own _what_?” he snapped at the bassist.

“You’ll know when y’find it,” George filled in on McCartney’s behalf, smiling brightly, “I have, y’know.”

And in the literal blink of an eye, they were gone… All three of his mates as though they’d never existed… As though they’d been a figment of his imagination all along. What an unsettling thought… “Come back!!” John called out to them, his voice weak and ineffective. He waited… but his plaintive shouts seemed to fall on deaf ears. He was alone all over again… Perhaps, he’d _always_ been alone. He found zero comfort in such a revelation.

“John Lennon, you get up right this moment!”

Startled, Lennon jumped to immediate attention, surprised to find none other than the unexpected presence of his aunt Mimi somehow standing right where Ringo had been moments ago. The older woman stood tall over him, looking down at him, ample discontentment ruling her eyes. “Mim?” he found himself feebly croaking in increased confusion.

“You’ll be late for school again at this rate!” the domineering older lady informed him, full-out impatience driving her less than grand mood, “What is it with you these days?! It’s as though you’re wholly incapable of understanding that I expect better from you!!”

“Mim…?”

“ _Don’t_ make me ask twice, _John_!!” the woman barked, blatantly cutting him off. She crossed her arms over her chest as she glared daggers of disapproval at him, “And when you get home, we’ll see to those grades or yours!”

Grades… _grades_??! He hadn’t been to school in… years… _What was this??_

“But Mim…” he found his voice again.

“Mim?!” a male voice boomed, “You’ve gone and lost it, laddie, haven’t you?”

Lennon’s jaw dropped. Mimi’s face was changing all the time. And to his immediate horror, she was taking on some masculine traits… Traits set to match the voice she’d unnaturally been out her gob with…

“Don’t you recognize your father when you see him?”

“N-no…” Lennon blurted out, despite the truth being obvious. The face before him had been burned into his mind since he was a tot and had had the displeasure of watching it permanently walk out of his life. There was no _way_ he could forget his father’s face… try as he might… And boy did he try…

“Come ‘ead, cheer up now! We’ll soon be off t’better things! New Zealand is a magical place, y’know. And soon it’ll be just _you_ and _me_ like intended…”

No… not again!! This was where everything in his life had begun going wrong… This was where it had all fallen apart. Maybe if he shut his eyes it would all go away… Maybe he could _make_ it all go _away_ …

“Johnny… whatever is the matter?”

It was Julia’s voice this time…

No. No. Make it all stop!!!! Why couldn’t he end this… this… whatever it was…? If it was a nightmare, he needed to wake up… If it was an alternate reality, he wanted no part of it. Lennon was shaking his head now frantically and forcefully, willing it all to an abrupt end. He couldn’t stop until he knew it was over. He wouldn’t stop until nothing but blissful silence graced his ears… He couldn’t relive these memories… not a-fucking-gain… It might break him yet… _Literally_ …

He was crying by the time things calmed down. Crying, as he looked about him, his cold, sterile, unforgiving environment now void of all things friendly. Of all things warm and memorable… What the _fuck_ was _happening_ to him? And _why_ the _fuck_ was it happening to _him_ of all people?

Nostalgia was unusually strong now… Lennon wondered vaguely if any more hallucinations would be set to follow. Maybe his life was beginning to flash before his eyes… But that would sort of indicate that he was dying… or _about_ to die… An unexpected laugh, a complete contrast to his set mood, wanted to escape the rhythm guitarist at the surfacing of this most recent of unconfirmed conclusions. The strange desire caught him off guard. It would be most inappropriate as there wasn’t a thing funny about any of it.

The more John dwelled on the possibility that his life was in fact, flashing before his eyes, the more he found that he wasn’t especially happy about the seemingly impromptu walk down memory lane. He felt it was only a matter of time before he was forced to relive the initial discovery of his mother’s death… or something else equally tragic that had occurred at some point within his less than ideal life. Because that was how it always was. That was how it had been for so long. And how it would always be.

Too often, the rhythm guitarist had found things to be going swimmingly only to turn around and have it all fall to pieces. He’d seen too much tragedy in the first twenty years of his life alone. It was enough that he’d, only in disclosure to Shotton and maybe McCartney, labeled himself a jinx, forever fearing for the lives of all he’d grown to love. It was why he was so cynical. It was why he could never find it within himself to be more optimistic. To be more trusting. People had to earn his trust to gain his love. What a puzzle he’d grown to be. What an enigma he’d unjustly been shaped into.

He was an uneven mixture of sarcasm, cynicism, anger, and sadness… all of which he’d skillfully hid behind a perfected mask of wit and humor. It had all become a permanent part of his charm. Part of that Lennon magnetism everyone found so endearing. The one that drove his fans mad and the reporters even madder. He was funny. He was witty. He was cheeky. He was dry. Downright scathing at times. And everyone loved it. Only they didn’t know where it originated from. They didn’t know what drove him. What shaped him. What tragedy he’d seen himself through to hone that part of him. Life. What a barrel of laughs. Worth every bit… had it actually been remotely funny in the first place.

Perhaps, fate itself was tired of watching him flounder. Watching him try and keep his head above water. To keep from drowning. Watching him drive himself in circles like the mad man he’d become. Lennon couldn’t blame it one bit. He too, had grown sick of it. The charade had gotten harder with time. It was only a matter of time before his psyche was much too broken to piece together… Crushed beyond repair. Maybe it was best to end things before it all caught up with him. Maybe it was best to let go…

Lennon shuddered at the thought that had briefly overcome his mind. Let go? Was he really thinking such a thing?

Where was this place he’d found himself in, anyway? And why wasn’t his will to find out stronger than the level it currently resided at? With a concentrated effort, John got back to thinking. Perhaps, he’d simply snuck off with his band to play at the Cavern Club without Mimi’s knowledge and permission… Or perhaps— Lennon’s thoughts trailed off prematurely as he grew to realize that none of the before considered scenarios made any sense. Because if they had, then why weren’t his surroundings more familiar? Why didn’t he recognize something? Why did he feel so abandoned? Deserted? Alone?

“Hello?” John hesitantly attempted to call out, testing his before-formulated abandonment theory. His voice didn’t seem capable of working though. Not really, anyway. Rather than from his mouth in the form of a spoken word, it seemed to originate from his mind in the form of an excruciating, head-splitting, projected thought… A separate entity altogether it felt like.

Crudely caught off guard yet again, the rhythm guitarist instantly found himself wincing uncontrollably as resulting pain exploded through his very brain. It rather felt like he’d shattered his skull. He looked down, his eyes struggling to focus on the blankets that enveloped him. There were even pieces of bone scattered across his sheets. Pieces of his own skull. Lennon blinked more so out of surprise from the strange and startling revelation and the pieces were gone as though they’d never existed. Had they truly been there in the first place? Was this a test of his sanity? Because if so, things weren’t looking good for him.

Reaching up, in desperate hopes of rubbing the newly worsened, sharp, attention-commanding ache out from his forehead, Lennon was subtly introduced rather suddenly to a slight tugging in his left arm. A bemused glance down to the affected limb revealed that he was hooked up to some kind of IV with some sort of fluid creeping into his bloodstream. At first glimpse, it looked green. And somewhat toxic. No wonder he was hallucinating…  It was probably straight Absinthe seeping into his system. With the brunt of this unsettling disclosure instantaneously washing over him, John hastily reached for the offending tube with his right hand and promptly ripped it out with brute force. The IV fell away like a limp snake, leaking its poison onto the floor. For all Lennon knew, it _was_ a snake. Looking down, he watched briefly intrigued, as it regained life and slithered away…

Without a lingering thought for the strange display he’d just witnessed, the guitarist nonchalantly hopped finally from his bed, his feet finding solid linoleum floor. Only then did he allow himself a full body inspection, thoroughly assessing his level of wellbeing. He felt okay, he concluded after awhile… aside from the headache that was. As he padded barefoot towards the room’s exit, he vaguely began to wonder what exactly it was that had landed him in the hospital in the first place. Nothing felt particularly broken. Nothing felt off-kilter… Just… his _head_ was killing him.

The door seemed to open up as John approached it. And before he knew what was happening, he was in the hallway, not on his feet anymore but floating in complete darkness, the floor having somehow fallen away. He could hear laughter now… A terrifying, bone-chilling cackle that seemed to resound from everywhere and nowhere… It raised the hair on his arms. On the back of his neck. It sent an icy tingle of enhanced, untouchable fear coursing down the center of his spine. On and on it went, eventually cutting out unexpectedly, a heavy, deafening silence replacing it. And all at once, a dazzling sea of stars opened up all about him in the blanketed darkness. Right before his very eyes, the tiny, dazzling pinpoints of light twinkled into existence, several at a time; each one presenting like a soundless, explosion occurring at a safe distance. It was truly one of the most magical yet sobering things Lennon had ever seen. He’d have to tell the others about it sometime. If he remembered…

Where _were_ the others? He hadn’t seen them in quite some time. The last he remembered of them, he was… They were… Christ… it was as though someone had gone and erased the majority of his short-term past from existence. Well, whatever it was he’d been doing… _with_ or _without_ them, he was pretty sure it had led to his hospitalization. Any number of things could’ve done him in. Maybe he was hit by a train… or a bus… Or maybe he was killed in a plane crash like Buddy Holly… The most recent of thoughts sent an additional chill down his spine. No wonder he hated flying. The thought of dying in this way frightened him more than words were capable of expressing…

What was he doing again? Oh right… trying to piece his life together… or rather what senseless bit remained of it… It would help if he could find something he recognized or rather someone he knew… or even just anyone at all… _Anyone_ … It was a bit unnerving, feeling like he was maybe the only living thing in his immediate vicinity. Or maybe he wasn’t living at all even… _Maybe_ he was in purgatory… _Maybe_ … Maybe, he was trapped in his _head_ … _What another strange thought to think…_

His feet found him at once, and before long, John was back in hospital-like surroundings, aimlessly wandering down a long, excessively stretched out corridor as though he had some sort of idea of what he was doing and where he was going. He didn’t. The proposed end of the hallway, every time he drew nearer, proceeded to drift away from him as he ambled toward it, like someone was purposely stretching it out to ensure that he’d never reach his destination… Try as he might, he couldn’t stop walking. And as fleeting panic settled in at the realization, it eventually became obvious that the solitary musician had somehow locked himself into autopilot mode; his body moving on its own, by itself. His feet as though belonging to someone else, moved in constant repetition… left foot, right foot… left… carrying him effortlessly past numerous doors on either side of him with who knew what concealed behind them. There was nothing on these doors indicative of what they may contain. Nothing but dates. _A date for everyday that you’ve been alive…_ There was the answer. And it had come to him not as a possible explanation… but seemingly as a voiceless truth from an external source of some sort… Strange didn’t even _begin_ to describe things any longer.

All at once, Lennon stopped walking and turned, facing one of these entryways head on. It was closed. Sealed off. Guarded. And what was a bit unnerving was that the date on this particular door was faded… He couldn’t make anything out but the year. _1964_ it glorified in golden numbers.

John’s heart was pounding now. Thudding in his chest like it was looking for the quickest evacuation route. At the rate it was going, it would be in his throat in seconds… and out his gob… What could all this mean? Taking a moment to look to his left, his eyes carefully scanned the doors in his proximity that remained in wait. From what he could see, they were completely bare and untouched. No dates posted upon them. What did it all mean?

 _What may be…_ The unspoken voice filled in… Christ… maybe this was what Ebenezer Scrooge had felt like in that Christmas film… _What the…_ Just as suddenly as the mental understanding manifested, the door directly in front of him flew open, the wind from such a pronounced disturbance rushing over him in real time, tossing his hair freely about his damp forehead.

Lennon welcomed the breeze without any question… He was suddenly so hot…Perhaps, it was from all the walking he’d just done… or perhaps, not…

Darkness stared back at him, somewhat reminiscent of the blackness he had encountered earlier. The only difference was the atmosphere. No longer was he at ease staring at stars… No. This was quite different. The air felt heavier here. Oppressive. Forbidden… Swallowing hard, Lennon approached the doorway, the action this time a product of his own will. He felt overpoweringly compelled to find what lay in wait. As though he simply had to know… or else… As though someone or _something_ wanted him to know.

As the darkness enveloped him, there was the sudden roaring sound of a match being struck and a dim, flickering light took his proximate world captive. He was in a cave now… All around him, shiny quartz embedded in surrounding rock, glistened, catching light from the flame that he couldn’t begin to track down. The boundless beauty did nothing to eliminate the general sense of unease that lingered, however. What _was_ it about this place? _‘Not the Cavern Club I’m used to…’_ was all the useless bit of information the bemused Beatle’s stupid mind felt relevant enough to turn up… and for no reason at all.

Desperate for the answers that weren’t forthcoming, John moved about the cavern-like environment in hopes of uncovering something significant… Though what it was he was trying to uncover was not immediately clear. His antics didn’t even make sense any longer. Though he’d briefly felt like he was in complete control of his actions, he somehow wasn’t anymore _…_ The bloody hell was going on, anyroad? _‘You’ve finally lost it, Lennon. This is it…’_ he thought to himself.

 _‘Can’t lose what y’never had!’_ he could hear Paul good-naturedly taunting him from afar. And Lennon smirked. Wasn’t _that_ the truth…?

Lost in a momentary daze, the rhythm guitarist stumbled suddenly, nearly falling headfirst into some kind of stone jutting up from the earth that made up the cavern floor. Reflexes intact, he managed to react just in time, hands flailing to grab its rocky edges, narrowly avoiding in the process what otherwise would’ve been a very rude awakening. Lennon didn’t even want to know what would’ve happened had he struck his head on the rock as he’d nearly done. With the way he currently felt, unconsciousness most likely would’ve been imminent. He was horribly dizzy all of a sudden… His head still unrelentingly throbbed… And he was bloody hotter still… He felt quite sick, actually… Bloody illnesses… What a useless form of torment.

Using his hands now as leverage, John eased himself off the support of the stone and with great effort, eventually forced himself into the standing position. His head swam sickeningly with the height change as though he was suddenly victim to altitude sickness. He didn’t feel well… at all… Why was this happening to him? He was going to be late for the show…

 _‘What show?’_ his mind hazily questioned, contradicting its own revelations.

The one they’d cancel once they learned he was sick and suffering.

_‘… But who were ‘they’?’_

Right… Eppy… and the others…

His mind was beginning to feel like a skipping record. No longer was it functioning properly. No longer could he manage a coherent thought.

“Look down…” a male disembodied voice told him. Somehow, it sounded like his uncle George…

His head still spinning, Lennon dared to obey. And as it turned out, the stone he’d readily assumed was just a stone… was actually something else. A gravestone to be exact. His uncle George’s? His mum’s? Stu’s? As the rhythm guitarist’s eyes sought out the truth, his blood momentarily ran cold as a subsequent conclusion dawned on him…

John Winston Lennon.

The resulting chill was imminent, dancing down his spine. The gravestone. It belonged to him.

The gravestone was _his_.

 _‘Here lies John Winston Lennon,’_ it read, its written message coming off in much too flippant and harmless a manner.

Aside from the unexpected yet enlightening display, he couldn’t make out much more aside from the attached lifespan etched in at the very bottom. _‘1940-1964,’_ it ominously revealed. What year was it now? Bloody hell, why couldn’t he remember the simplest of things? What a maddening thing to happen to someone! It was like having amnesia… all the fucking time…

He hadn’t noticed it at first, but something was currently being carved below the year listing; an invisible hand working diligently to make additional writing appear before John’s very eyes. A product of small print, the new writing was barely legible. But somehow, the rhythm guitarist knew exactly what it said before his eyes could figure out how to make visual sense of it.

_‘He died solely because he gave up.’_

It was as though someone had merely whispered the words to him… Like answers to a test meant to clue him in… In this case, the test was more or less likely his supposed life. And by the look of things, he was failing at it, wasn’t he? It was possible he may have already failed… It was possibly he was leaving his world behind like so many of his loved ones before… He was no different now… No different from his mum. Uncle George. Stu…

In a state of mental shock, John limply fell back from the grave, his mind spinning and racing like an off-center top. He was lying there, staring up at the cavern ceiling in a slight daze… when very suddenly without warning, something wrapped around his waist and began the seemingly impossible task of pulling him down into the earth. To his grave. As cold soil rose up all around him like quick sand, Lennon tried to fight it… tried to scream… tried to break free…

…but the frightening thing was, he couldn’t move…


	41. Two of Us

Four days ago, Paul had gotten the horrible news. Four days later, nothing had changed by anyone’s standards. Life still found John Lennon to be in a coma… and he _still_ wasn’t doing as well as doctors had hoped would be the case by now… Quite possibly he was even worse off… His stubborn fever continued to block the brunt of his mentality and his body, a victim to pure and ultimate torment, had simply shut down unable to cope with its newly acquired defective nature. Given the ever-looming threat of this most recent of disappointments, it was taking _everything_ within the bassist these past few days not to fall victim to a fit of irreversible, irrepressible depression. Things looked horribly grim in shades of black and white. And the strengthening possibility that nothing would ever be the same ever again was becoming harder and harder to fend off. It was as though death, hungry for living souls, had already staked its claim. It was as though the grim reaper, seated regally upon its pale horse, was callously biding its time; watching intently, unblinkingly from the shelter of the darkest of shadows. Paul had no doubt in his mind that John was being stalked. He had no doubt in his mind that death, crafty in every way, often got what it coveted… What it sought with unseeing eyes. There was no comfort to be found in such a revelation. Only fear.

Recently, recurrent flashbacks of his late mum’s demise had begun to plague him daily and nightly, bringing all potential possibilities regarding his seemingly doomed best mate to mind … And becoming more and more frequent were frightening occurrences in which his brain made the twisted adjustment forcing him to imagine what it would be like to lose John… The end result of such dark and deranged thinking would always quickly grow unmanageable and a resulting sea of silent tears would burst loose…

Countless times, Ringo had woken up to McCartney’s random bouts of late night sobbing brought on by some form of torturous nightmare regarding his late mother… Countless times the drummer had consoled him, helping to lull him back to the repairing agent of sleep his body needed. Often, he had no idea it was even happening. He’d simply awaken in Ringo’s tight embrace, confused and disoriented as ever. The following morning, he’d have no recollection, save for Ringo casually asking him how he slept and how he was feeling. It occurred like clockwork now… and the accompanying strain was blatantly beginning to show on the bass player’s face to the point that very few could look at him without wondering if he’d collapse before their very eyes; a victim to total exhaustion…

With a current sigh, Paul pulled the curtains back and gazed out longingly into the newly fallen night. It had stopped raining finally but a persistent rawness had settled into the atmosphere as could be felt through the slightly open window. While it was somewhat late, the streets seemed much too empty than what he’d assumed characteristic for the region. Numerous streetlights, the only prominent structures visible alongside the road save for the occasional fire hydrant and tree, cast long shadows upon the pavement; each looking like it was competing with the last for the most range and coverage. All buildings and vehicles in the vicinity faded into the murky background appearing almost two-dimensional and untouchable as though they were merely drawn onto gray paper.

A strange, unexpected tingle of fleeting excitement danced down the bassist’s spine as he took it all in. This most foreign of worlds seemed so free. So open. So separate from his closed in life. And right then, he could hardly contain the fascination that flooded him. Called out to him. With all going on lately, he’d been growing steadily antsy. Strings of restless nights had brought about strings of restless days in which he habitually found himself craving a change of pace. A change of scenery to distract himself with… A thrill capable of chiseling away at the cement blocks that were his feet. If he could break free of the mold, chances were he could gain a new perspective on things. Shake the cobwebs that fastened him to the darkness that had befallen his mind. He’d been going mad for far too long now. And he was a mere amount of steps from losing it entirely.

It was one reason he’d loved having Lennon around. The rhythm guitarist had always been looking for an excuse to change things up. Rattle cages, so to speak. Danger and the like… It was what he’d lived for. While Paul in contrast, often preferred to take the safer route. Together the two balanced each other out. McCartney kept Lennon in check while Lennon helped McCartney to dabble outside his constructed realm of comfort. Their partnership hadn’t been limited to songwriting. It was so much more. It had always had been. And consequently, it radiated beauty.

Perhaps it was solely because he missed John. Perhaps he wanted to honor him in his absence. Perhaps his need for distraction had finally surpassed logic and he was entering the world of complete madness… For whatever reason, however, here was Paul lacking the company of his roguish other half, wanting every bit to bend the rules. Wanting every bit to conform to the prohibited. Maybe Lennon had had more of an impact on him than he initially realized…

“We’re not s’pposed to go near the window, y’know…” Ringo drawled lazily from the sitting room’s loveseat that he’d willingly claimed for himself. He dragged on a cigarette, wincing slightly as it burned his tortured windpipe before expelling a trail of smoke into the air in the form of a cough. He watched with slight amusement as it drifted past Paul out the open window he seemed intent in hovering near.

Paul regarded the drummer with mild interest, “And maybe y’shouldn’t be smoking with that throat of yers,” he retorted.

Ringo shook his head, “I doubt it’ll kill me right this instant,” he professed, eyeing Paul with utmost seriousness despite the amusement still clinging to his eyes, “But a riot, that could ‘ave a long-term impact, y’know.”

“Well, to be honest, I feel I need a change of scenery…” McCartney responded as though such words should have what it took to readily provide the protection he would need from any outdoor dangers.

The amusement remained a permanent part of Ringo’s outward display, “Y’trying t’get us mauled in the process?” he asked, his tone taking on a note of incredulity, “I imagine our fans would gobble us up, spit us out, then gobble us up again… I don’t fancy going in such a way, y’know.”

“Shhh…. _Listen_ ,” Paul abruptly raised a hand up for subsequent silence, “Do y’ _hear_ anything out there?” he asked after a necessary amount of time had passed, “The streets are empty save for the occasional passerby!”

“Get on!!” Curious now, Ringo rose from his seat of comfort and crept closer to where Paul was perched. A gaze out the window of his own confirmed everything his bassist friend had been out his gob with, “Where do y’think they all are?” he asked, eyes wide.

“Fans are prolly sick of the rain, no doubt,” Paul idly guessed, “Or rather security thought we could benefit from peace of mind…”

Ringo took a moment to glance at the clock on a distant wall. “I reckon it’s late, y’know.  It’s possible everyone’s asleep,” he suggested.

“It’s not _that_ late,” Paul quickly countered, “They’ve gone on till sunrise in days past, y’know.”

Ringo shrugged. “I imagine endless screaming would grow tiresome even for the most robust of our fans.”

“Mm…” Paul commented absently.

Ringo cast the bassist a sidelong glance suspecting from the registered tone of his response that he was no longer listening to him. “I heard they were sick of us, anyroad,” he slyly added, testing the solidity of his formulated theory, “And of course there’s all those rumors stating that you’re way too cute to be human.”

Paul merely nodded, his gaze continually fixated on the night.

Ringo shook his own head, a small smile gracing his face. When Paul was distracted, he was _distracted_. With a dismissive shrug, the drummer made the conscious decision to return to his seat deciding that it may be best to let him be for the moment.

“Ringo,” Paul spoke quietly, coming alive abruptly as though triggered by the motion of the drummer moving away from him.

“Yes?” Ringo looked up at his younger mate once more as he transitioned himself from his standing position to the preferred comfort of being seated. The bassist was looking at him now, his eyes impossibly wide and lacking the tame appearance they’d previously held in captivity of the night.

Caught off guard by the unanticipated change of demeanor, Ringo drew back out of sheer surprise. To him, the bassist looked outright mad. Downright escape-from-the-loony-bin, barmy. Maybe it was the lack of sleep making itself visible? Suddenly, the drummer had no idea what to expect from him next.

Staring hard at him in intent scrutiny, Ringo prematurely attempted to gauge the bassist’s state of mind to see if he, himself, would readily be able to handle whatever it was he was about to say next. The bassist annoyingly blessed with that maddening gift of composure, even in excitement, as expected gave nothing away. Lovely.  “Uh… Paulie…” he began hesitantly… tentatively… warily, “What?”

Paul’s eyes glittered now with an unfathomable amount of unnatural enthusiasm. “Rings,” he stated again.

“ _What, Paul_?!” the drummer shouted, unable to contain himself any longer. His raised voice brought about a coughing fit which he quickly struggled to gain control of.

“We uh… _we_ … should go _out_!” McCartney suggested finally, bringing forth without warning, everything the drummer had been struggling yet failing to anticipate.

Ringo really wished he had done a better job in trying to read his mate because now he felt as though his mouth was going to unhinge to the very floor beneath him. “Us? Out _there_?” he asked, pointing timidly to the window for added emphasis.

Paul rolled his eyes, temporary sarcasm running rampant through the facial reaction, “To the moon, Rings… Where the bloody _hell_ else?”

Ringo glared at him, partially annoyed, “Cheekiness isn’t going to get you anywhere, son!”

“Well, are we _going_ , then?” Paul asked, dismissively letting the drummer’s chastising words drift pass him.

“Are y’bleedin’ mad?” Ringo demanded. A dubious laugh escaped his mouth at the daftness of the very idea that had seemingly come from directly out of the blue. Eyebrow arched skeptically, the drummer continually took in McCartney’s proposal, wonder at his unforeseen antics sinking in. “Channeling our inner Lennon, then, are we?” he knowingly confirmed, the fitting conclusion falling into place, “He’d be right proud, y’know… Perfect Paulie looking t’sneak out and all.”

Paul bristled with distaste, “I’m not _that_ perfect!” he impulsively snapped, visibly perturbed by the drummer’s choice in wording; something he’d most likely picked up from the likes of Lennon, no doubt, “Moreover, I’m tired of being stuck in this godforsaken hotel room. Not to mention, it would bloody serve Brian and Mal right fer leaving us behind to take on the hospital without us.”

A mere hour or so ago, the two managers had announced their departure to the hospital, telling Paul and Ringo nothing more other than the fact that they’d had some sort of meeting with the doctors of John and George. And they’d been left in the dark from that moment on, no further explanations forthcoming. And Paul, he’d hated any lack of awareness especially where his very best mates were concerned. _Especially_ with one of them having been trapped in a coma nearly going on five days now. The bassist had wanted answers on the spot… and even more so, he’d wanted to tag along. Having the door shut in his face had only served to launch him even further into the stormy world of irritation and neglect.

 _‘Be good or else!’_ Mal had told them before leaving.

 _‘I don’t see why they shouldn’t be,’_ Eppy had found the need to announce, _‘They certainly won’t have Lennon goading them into trouble this time around, will they?’_ He’d sounded sad about it and Paul had consequently begun to wonder just what it was their meeting at the hospital regarded… He’d like it if they had at least taken the time to fill him in on that aspect before inconsiderately parading out the door, leaving him victim to every known concern in the universe.

“I’m sure they had security elevated,” Ringo presently pointed out as though to disengage Paul’s newly acquired obsession with the outdoors.

“Which would make the place relatively safe, wouldn’t it?” McCartney unhesitatingly concluded, the scheming wheels of his mind turning cunningly with Lennon-like deviousness.

Ringo frowned fretfully recognizing the look as he’d seen John’s ever-changing eyes alit with it over a thousand times too many, “I guess so…” he reluctantly admitted, somewhat aggravated that his argument, feeble as it had been had backfired. The stupid cold medicine he’d taken earlier must’ve been eating his brain alive…

Paul concentrated on the drummer, reading his every reaction with all the perceptiveness that came natural to him, “Well, y’can tag along or don’t,” he simply concluded, realizing after a while that Ringo wasn’t quite on board with his suggestions, “It’s yer choice. But _me_ , I’m going outside fer a smoke.” With that said, he sailed past Ringo en route for the door.

“Yer daft!” the drummer called after him, surfacing anger tinting his voice.

And Paul stopped in his tracks, turning to face the drummer with all the purpose he was capable of. “Yer daft _not_ wanting t’come!” he threw back.

Snuffing out the remains of his cigarette in the ashtray that sat within reach on the table in front of him, Ringo turned to him, arms crossing against his chest in heated challenge, “How do yer figure?” he defensively demanded.

And Paul softened his approach, mentally apprehending that it was all wrong for what he was actively trying to portray. The idea was to coax the drummer into joining him, not chase him away. “Don’t y’want t’live a little while y’still can, Ritch?” he asked of him, his tone soaking up in persuasion what it was beginning to lack in frustration, “Haven’t y’seen how _short_ the human life can be? Are our very own Lennon and Harrison _not_ proof enough of it?”

Uncrossing his arms, Ringo’s gaze dropped to his lap.

He seemed to be listening so Paul continued, “One minute, yer living yer life not a care in the world… and the next…” His voice abruptly trailed off, the rest of the statement very much speaking for itself. “…Tomorrow may rain, but you follow the sun…” he beautifully sang out, rather than finish the previous thought.

And Ringo smiled, unable to help himself any longer. Paul had consciously brought one of the band’s well-known songs to mind and changed the lyrics to better fit his situation. The bassist with that elegant voice of his, had always had a way with song.

“Y’never know what tomorrow may bring,” Paul currently concluded.

The drummer fidgeted with his hands in deep consideration. Paul was hitting on all the right words if changing his mind was what he was attempting to convey. “Yeah… I suppose…” he murmured after a while.

“Then come ‘ead!” McCartney gestured towards the suite’s door with a slight indicative jerk of the head.

Starkey’s gaze gravitated towards it. The gateway to freedom. To the unknown. To everything that wasn’t the norm. The door actually seemed… inviting. Welcoming. If the drummer listened, he could almost here its taunting, nonexistent voice, luring him in its direction like a compelling siren of sorts. It sounded like… Lennon. _‘Come ‘ead, y’soddin’ nancies! See what’s offered by the great outdoors. Have a smoke fer me while yer at it.’_ Ringo sighed, heavy nostalgia overcoming him. He truly missed the way things once were… He truly missed their mates and the sound of their voices. It _still_ wasn’t fair.

“You all right, Ring?” Paul was upon him before the petite drummer even had a chance to blink.

Eyes widening in slight embarrassment, Ringo backed away only slightly, trying to guide himself out from his mate’s look of concern, “Yeah, I’m fine! Just thinking,” he assured him, offering him a disarming smile.

Paul didn’t look convinced, “What about?” he demanded, “Y’looked as though y’were about t’cry…”

The drummer smiled sadly at him, “It’s not important, love.”

“It’s okay to cry over them, y’know,” Paul told him, “I’ve done so plenty. But… I’ve yet to see you truly break down…”

Ringo looked wistfully towards the door, “Maybe some other time…” he remarked softly, “I reckon it would only slow us down…” With renewed haste, he started finally towards the door McCartney had previously gestured at.

“Wait, so yer coming?” Paul asked, barely contained relief flooding him.

“Yes…” Ringo reluctantly confirmed at once, “But if we get caught, it’s yer arse I’m handing over to them before me own.”

Paul smirked at him, “So be it.”

The bassist strode his way to the door like he had all the authority in the world and looked briefly through the peephole. After verifying the emptiness of the hallway within view, he deemed it safe enough to unlock the door. Security must’ve been paroling the hotel grounds rather than the building itself, he mentally went on to conclude as a reason for their absence. The thought hardly bothered him as with limited hesitation, Paul tugged on the doorknob and yanked it open gesturing hurriedly for Ringo to follow him.

Looking like a lost puppy, the drummer did so with all the reluctance in the world. The last time he’d been outdoors with a Beatle, just the two of them, it had been John. And John had… Ringo struggled to push the intrusive memory away before it could readily affect him. He wasn’t fast enough. The memory prevailed, unfolding before him like history repeating itself in film form… He’d been feverish, John. Feverish and burning up… and then without warning, he’d collapsed… and Ringo had watched the entire thing as though it had occurred in slow motion. Everything from Lennon collapsing to McCartney’s subsequent, unforgettable look of pure, unadulterated fear… The unanticipated happening was what had started the hell. It was what had started _everything_. And something the drummer would never be able to un-see. Nor would he ever be able to un-see Harrison’s equally startling collapse. The drummer remembered specifically having reached out to touch him and before he properly knew what was happening… hell uninvited, continued on with its destructive brigade.

Ringo blinked, the dark recollections dissolving now at will. He must’ve had his eyes closed the entire time he’d been trailing Paul… Or perhaps he had taken too much cold medicine to begin with, because before he knew it, the two Beatles were standing outside on the front steps leading to the hotel. Discreetly off to the side, they stood in shadow, the cool and refreshing night air all around them. It felt good. Christ, it felt good. Every bit as freeing as it was meant to be. Paul had been right. And he, himself, had been right for following suit.

Paul abruptly made a show of patting down his pockets, searching frantically within them. Most likely, he was seeking out the pack of smokes he’d been looking forward to indulging in by that point. Ringo waited patiently, as growing frenetic in his endeavors, the bass player completed his failed search, having nothing to show for it. After a while, he turned sheepishly to face his companion, the feat Ringo had been tolerantly waiting for. “Can I bum a fag off ye’?” he asked.

Ringo was most unfazed by the question. “Didn’t y’think to bring yer own while y’were so eager to get out here?” he lightly questioned, feigning irritation over his mate’s forgetful antics.

Paul shook his head, his sheepishness becoming all the more blatant, “I…uh… sort of forgot…” he lamely admitted.

The drummer shook his head at the revelation, a small knowing smile making its way across his lips, “Of course y’did. Lucky fer you, I brought enough for the both of us!”

“I knew y’would!” Paul grinned.

“No reason fer any premature excitement, McCartney,” Ringo chided, carrying on with his act of feigned irritation, “I said I brought enough for the both of us. Doesn’t mean I’m willing t’share!”

McCartney’s face fell, “But…”

And Ringo started laughing, more so at how quickly Paul’s entire demeanor had changed. “Jus’ having ye’ on, love! I’m a marvelous actor, aren’t I?” Smiling to himself, he reached into the depths of his pockets pulling out a pack of Marlboros.

“Yer not, the public lied,” Paul scornfully shot back, trying to sound displeased while struggling to fight back the reflexive grin that wanted to conform to his face once more.

“Jealous…” Ringo sang playfully. Removing two cigarettes from his pack, he claimed one for himself while handing the other off to Paul, waving it tauntingly in his face.

Paul snatched it, slipping it automatically into his mouth, finally giving into the satisfied facial expression that would otherwise have come naturally to him. He smiled.

“…And… what do we say, love?” Starkey bluntly asked, blatantly seeking gratitude for his _own_ satisfaction.

McCartney rolled his eyes, unable to contain his annoyance, “Ta, _Ritchie_!” he responded with mock sweetness, “I always knew I could count on ye’!” He smiled genuinely to punctuate his statement, revealing true appreciation, all acting put aside.

Ringo rolled his eyes at the bassist’s display as a whole, though not without some affection present, “Yeah, well… if we get caught, it’s _still_ yer arse over mine.”

Paul chuckled lightheartedly, “While yer in the act of sharing, ye’ also got a light?” he asked next, speaking skillfully around his stick of tobacco.

Again Ringo rolled his eyes, “Y’know, you’d be lost without me, son,” he boastfully made a point of informing his mate, “It’s a good thing _I_ decided to come along, after all.”

Reaching in his pocket next for some matches, the drummer pulled out a lone one and sparked it up bringing the burning end to McCartney’s cigarette. The bassist inhaled deeply and nodded his appreciation. Hurrying while he still had use of the match, Ringo did the same for his own cigarette. Soon they were both having a successful smoke.

As the drummer contemplatively dragged on his cigarette, he found that Paul’s words were still ringing endlessly within his ears. _‘I’ve yet to see you truly break down…’_ the bass player had worriedly informed him. But it was lies, wasn’t it? Paul _had_ seen him break down… hadn’t he? He’d seen him react to John… He’d seen him react to George… The facts were all there… weren’t they? _Weren’t_ they?  _He’d_ …

Or maybe they weren’t. The more he dwelled on it, the more he realized that it was _him_. _He_ was the one that was lying. _Ringo_. And to _himself_ of all people. He’d been too busy trying to be a _rock_ for Paul… Trying to _comfort_ Paul. Trying to be that ever-present, ever strong voice of reason that the bassist had needed to lull him permanently into a false sense of security. A false sense of security that had spent a great deal of time masquerading as some sort of safe haven. No, Ringo had not broken down. He hadn’t allowed for it… Was he not the Beatle with the blind optimism? He was… and Paul had needed that out of him more than anything.

The sniffles had erupted first. And he’d paid no mind to them, believing them to be a product of his illness. But as they worsened and as the watery eyes surfaced as part of some deranged package deal, he began to realize exactly what it was that was taking place.

Paul didn’t even budge from his nearby post, his gaze fixated to the sky. But somehow, he knew. How was it that Paul _always_ knew? “All right, Ritch?” the bassist asked, his question presenting on cue.

Ringo loudly sniffled, “Yeah… I’m not sure what’s come over me.”

“Emotions. They’ll do that, y’know.” Paul turned to him finally, his eyes barely visible under the night sky, radiating ample warmth, “Just go with the flow, love… Let it out. You’ll feel world’s better.”

And the drummer did. Finally after too many days of composure, he gave into it; the resulting sobs vigorously wracking his body. McCartney’s embrace held him steady as he cried and cried into the night. He cried a song for John, still trapped in his coma. He cried a song for George, still on the long road to recovery. He cried a song for Eppy and Mal. He cried a song for the Beatles. For Paul. He cried for all the loved ones unfairly involved. And finally, he cried for himself.

And before Paul knew what was happening, he too was sobbing for reasons all the same. For endless minutes, the two Beatles stood on the step of the hotel holding each other and sobbing unabashedly into each other’s hair each seeking from the other much-craved levels of comfort. Each tear shed helped them to feel a little lighter from the weight that had been on them for far too long. They cried until they simply had nary a tear to shed.

After a while, a sniffling Paul pulled away, dragged at his cigarette for an added calming effect. And gathering Ringo’s attention, he pointed up at the sky, his wet eyes dancing now like the stars embedded within it, “Look,” he quietly informed his mate.

Without hesitation to waste time with, Ringo followed his gaze, his eyes growing wider all the while with awe.

As a change of pace to the permanent rain they’d all had the displeasure of dealing with, the brunt of the clouds had cleared, leaving a beautiful span of cosmic glory behind. Millions and millions of stars, like diamonds on black velvet, glistened into existence, each one appearing much more breathtaking than the last. Try as he might, Ringo couldn’t stop looking at them. Strangely enough, their dazzling presence seemed to put everything into much needed perspective. If such a spectacular night sky could exist, then why couldn’t miracles exist as well? Perhaps, they simply had to look for these rarities in life. When sought out, miracles were everywhere in the form of nature. And if everyone took a simple moment to look about them at all times… really take in the natural design of their surroundings, they would find exactly that. Such a thought in mind, suddenly made the unlikely seem highly likely. Just what they needed on a night of the like.

“See why I dragged us out here?” Paul whispered as though he’d caught a glimpse into the innermost workings of his mate’s mind.

Ringo nodded, keeping silent. Somehow, he was afraid that if he dared to speak, the magic would be permanently lost. Paul was a bloody genius.

The bassist smiled. “Good.”

No more was said after that. Together, the two Beatles continued to drag in comfortable silence wholeheartedly taking in the night and gazing up at the boundless beauty beheld by the sky. Together they dreamed, their unspoken fears bringing them even closer together. Unshakably mesmerized by their very surroundings, the two musicians took several more drags of their cigarettes before turning in complete unison and heading back into the comfort of the hotel, zero traces of their mini adventure evident. Everything was finally in perspective now. And for the time being, that was everything enough for them.


	42. Good Day Sunshine

Dr. Jamison, in possession of Harrison’s scans from five days ago, officially had the additional new scans created earlier that morning for comparison. With supplementary promising blood work under his belt, he studied these scans incessantly to be sure. Over and over again, his eyes had skillfully analyzed the translucent images, repeatedly comparing the series just to ensure that he in fact hadn’t missed anything important. He very well couldn’t just waltz into George Harrison’s room with only half-truths and constructed fallacies. To do so would be grounds for a lawsuit of the worst kind, especially since he was dealing with an icon coveted not just by England and America… but the world as well. He would need to be sure that everything he was about to relay forth to the guitarist was one hundred percent accurate. One hundred percent genuine.

While it had taken up to a half hour to achieve proper assurance… followed by reassurance, and then re-reassurance, the doctor was now finally feeling confident enough on the subject matter to provide the necessary insight that was becoming more urgent all the time. Now, he realized, was as good a time as any. Now, he knew exactly what it was that needed to be said… what needed to be done…

With confidence in tow, Dr. Jamison presently let himself into the lead guitarist’s private room, chart in hand. One quick glance told him that the kid was asleep. “I have wonderful news, George!” the doctor loudly announced, figuring he would easily be able to return to sleep soon after.

Having been only lightly dozing, Harrison jolted awake and turned towards him, dark, unfocused eyes taking a moment to adjust. His voice nearly nonexistent from limited use, he merely grunted up at him in response.

“Your brain scan from this morning shows that the swelling has declined a great deal since we’ve begun your regime of antibiotics! The decrease marked in the past five days alone is phenomenal!!”

Eyebrows furrowing, George cleared his throat before finding his voice seemingly locked deep within, “I don’t know what yer on about…” he bluntly croaked out, “I can’t understand the lot of that… fancy talk…” His brain, still not working at a level he was used to, he was having a hard time coming into proper sentence formation.

Dr. Jamison smiled amiably with a cheerful laugh to match. There was something comical about the look the musician had chosen to grace him with. This kid seemed to wear the visible brunt of his emotions on his outer shell. “Well, in short,” he patiently went on to explain, “it means that the medicine you’ve been given is running its course! Everything is working perfectly and going according to plan!”

The lead guitarist found he was hesitant to show any true form of contentment given his current predicament. “Am I better, then?” he asked.

“Not yet…” the doctor responded with an abrupt shake of the head, “But your blood work _was_ promising. If things continue on the path they seem to be going on, you should be in no time at all!”

George pessimistically frowned, his reaction the polar opposite of what his caretaker had been expecting from him. “But I don’t feel any different…” he tiredly revealed, blinking heavily under the fluorescent lighting of the room, “Me head still hurts…” As though to prove his point, he brought a hand up to his forehead and massaged it for emphasis.

“Where exactly is the pain?”

“Here.” The young Beatle gestured to his forehead with a grimace.

“Anywhere else? The back of your head? Your neck?”

George took a moment to fully evaluate the brunt of his head pain before gradually shaking his head. “No… I guess not so much… anymore…”

“That’s a good sign. Your frontal headache is likely a product of your fever,” Dr. Jamison accurately informed him, “It’s still elevated at 102 but even that’s an improvement from the 102.3 you’ve been at the past two days.”

“Oh.” The musician moved his hand away from his forehead and scratched absently at an obscure spot above his left ear. His hair, matted from continual contact with the pillow beneath his head felt snarled like a rat’s nest. He tried unsuccessfully to yank his fingers through it, wincing as they caught like an insect in a web. Or rather a beetle or… a Beatle in a web… Speaking of Beatles… Slowly working to untangle his fingers, his eyes simultaneously met his doctor’s gaze, “When can I see me mates, then?” he asked, struggling to stifle a humungous yawn that seemed to have snuck up on him from nowhere. His _mates_. He missed them terribly. Now that he was completely aware of his surroundings as he’d been the past two days, hospital life was quickly growing humdrum. He’d love to see anyone of the familiar faces in his memory bank.

The older man looked briefly contemplative. “Today if you’d like,” he decided, after ample thought was given to the topic, “Seeing as you’re no longer considered contagious as yielded by your blood tests, I could give them a call, tell them the good news, and have them drop by for a small visit. They’ll be allowed no more than fifteen minutes, however,” he sternly took the time to add, “You’re still sick and it’s extremely important that you get your rest first and foremost. I can’t _begin_ to stress that enough!”

And Harrison managed his first genuine grin since having ever set foot in that hospital. It was lopsided at best but chockfull with authentic appreciation. “Ta, mister!”

The doctor looked immediately baffled not to mention slightly offended by such strange phrasing, “Excuse me?” he questioned uncertainly.

“Thanks…” the lead guitarist clarified.

Dr. Jamison laughed as the meaning of the word officially descended upon him. Surely it had to have been some kind of British dialect that the guitarist had thrown at him. “Oh… of course… you’re very welcome, then!” he responded finally. He smiled once more, “And _please_ , for the last time, George, you can call me Dr. Jamison. I _am_ your doctor after all!”

George blushed, “Right!” he realized.

Seriousness gripped his doctor in the direct aftermath of all things friendly, “Get some rest now,” he sternly ordered, “Your friends will wake you once they arrive.”

George looked eternally grateful. “Thanks again,” he sincerely told him. Without waiting for any sort of answer, he closed his eyes and was promptly asleep in a matter of seconds.

The doctor smiled, visibly pleased. It had been approximately seven or so days since he’d been admitted and Harrison was potentially on the mend. What a remarkable, extraordinary rarity.

* * *

 

Forest surrounded him. A sunlit forest complete with trees of the tallest height, thickest trunks, and coarsest bark. The magnitude alone of the majestic trees along with the air, heavy with some sort of vibrating energy, helped to give off feelings of enchantment… as though the very forest was riddled with magical capabilities. One could walk amongst these trees and feel revitalized, energized… and brand new all at once. The stubborn grips of his cold didn’t even seem to bother him here. Nor did his troubled mindset. All that mattered was the boundless beauty that surrounded him and the various woodland creatures hiding in the abundance of thickets that graced his vicinity. He was at peace with himself and the world. And his surroundings were at peace with him.

He was looking at a giraffe. No… maybe it was a horse… or a zebra of some sort. Or perhaps he hadn’t a clue what it was he was looking at. Yeah. That possibility was the most definite thing he’d been faced with in what felt like years. Not like this strangest of creatures he was suddenly faced with. It was changing all the time… And every time he found himself certain he was gaining some sort of proper insight as to what it was, it would be halfway already into some other form of some other animal.

Now a far cry from any equestrian being, it was starting to resemble a pig…And at the rate of whimsy he was presented with, Ringo found he wouldn’t be surprised if it were to go on and sprout wings thick enough to achieve flight…

To his amazement as though at the mercy of his very eyes, it did exactly that.

The drummer watched, blue eyes growing enlarged as white feathers pushed up from the impossibly pink porcine back like something of a deranged tree sprouting from the earth in freakishly accelerated time. _‘Curiouser and curiouser…’_ Ringo couldn’t help thinking as he looked on. What a peculiar thing to witness… Could his minds be playing tricks on him? He doubted the possibility given the daunting degree of what he was seeing. Perhaps, if he was hallucinating… then maybe…

As the wings reached full size, what appeared to be a good ten feet, Ringo found himself overcome by complete awe with a vague mix of amusement. It was rather humorous, really, to see what appeared to be a common farm animal with wings so big and overpowering. But then again giving the size of the pig, it proved rational enough that its wings would reach consequent, significant, enormity. ‘ _When pigs fly_ ,’ the drummer found himself musing subsequently as he analyzed the madness he was continually faced with. It was a saying, a phrase he’d heard many a time throughout his younger years. A phrase that negated the likelihood of something seemingly unachievable coming to pass… And here he was… Ringo Starr… face to face with one of these whimsical creatures. Who’d have thunk…?

The musician crept closer for a better look, wanting to commit such a rare occurrence to memory. Truthfully, he couldn’t wait to tell the others though he was nearly a hundred percent sure that they wouldn’t believe him for even a second. It was quite possible they’d merely make a mockery of him if he were to judge by past similar experiences. Lennon would flat out laugh in his face, loud and boisterous as though to draw all eyes to the scorn he was often in the habit of dishing out. Harrison would calmly shake his head with a characteristic smirk to accompany his seasoned look of skepticism. And McCartney, probably the most forgiving of all, would simply humor him with a small yet troubled smile… And why shouldn’t they? The drummer still wasn’t entirely sure that what he was seeing was truly existent, standing here in front of him with all the right in the world…

As Ringo drew closer, the winged pig turned to look at him. And just as the drummer was close enough that he could physically touch it; it opened its mouth as though it were about to openly engage him in conversation. “Wake up, Ringo,” it spoke in perfect English, nary an oink or a pig-like snort to be heard.

And Ringo backed away, startled. “Wake up?” he found himself echoing in shock. What a strange thing to say… It was strange enough a pig was _talking_ in general and to him of all people…but still… what a strange thing to say…

“Wake up!” the pig spoke again, this time with much more aggression. This time, Ringo had to laugh. It sounded sort of like… Paul… Specifically how the bassist would get when he was anxious… or overly eager about something.

“Rings!!”

Now it _really_ sounded like Paul. How odd…

Ringo frowned as his surroundings proceeded to melt away right then. The landscape, trees, woods, and all melted first like faded wallpaper peeling from a wall and somewhat comically, the pig ever capricious once more began to change, McCartney’s face coming to be where the pig’s head once was. Unable to contain himself, he began to laugh, particularly at the split moment in time in which Paul’s nose was nothing more than a pig snout. And he laughed even harder when the entire face proceeded to contort into that of confusion.

Hands were shaking him now. Or rather Paul’s pig-like hooves…

The drummer carried on with his release of glee, not an immediate care in the world than what was visible to him and only him.

Finally, seeming to give up and give in, McCartney sat back and regarded him with mild hesitation set within his astonished eyes. “What’re y’laughing for?” he demanded incredulously, “Yer right creeping me out laughing yerself awake in such a way!”

By this point, Ringo was fully coherent, the remnants of his ridiculous dream slipping away. “Y’looked like a pig!” he explained, chuckling still to himself.

Paul only narrowed his eyes in wary response, failing still to see any humor as he’d had no real way of putting himself in the drummer’s shoes. “…The hell…?” he asked, for lack of better response, taking in his mate as though he had since sprouted feathers.

Managing to get his laughter under control, Ringo shook his head, his brown hair tangled from sleep, scattering about his head like the floppy top of a mop. “A dream…” he elaborated, as though to convince Paul that he was far from barmy.

Paul nodded, but the look of confusion was still there. “Y’sure are a strange dreamer, Starkey…” he mumbled, incredulity still hugging his voice.

“I rather think y’mean beautiful dreamer…” Ringo cheekily corrected him, arching an eyebrow at him.

His younger mate scoffed with simulated disgust.

“Am I not beautiful, Paulie?” Ringo asked, a mock pout punctuating his question, “Do ye’not agree?”

Paul playfully rolled his eyes, “Well… maybe I agree… a little bit…” he relented with a huge sigh as though admitting such a thing took that much effort, “But yer still strange. Dreams and all…”

Ringo shrugged, taking the statement as a compliment. Paul wasn’t wrong, after all… If only he _truly_ knew what _really_ went on in his head on a day-to-day basis. His dreams might not seem so strange then… The older musician stifled a yawn and sat up in his bed with a burst of energy, rare of late for his cold-ridden body. “Why’d y’wake me, Macca?” he asked, turning to glance at his bedside clock, “‘S’ early still, y’know…” His nose was terribly clogged as it often was first thing in the morning when he was sick and as a result, his voice was altered.

McCartney broke out into the biggest, most unanticipated grin the drummer had seen on his face in quite some time. “Today’s the day!” he happily announced.

It was Ringo’s turn to experience confusion to the fullest caliber. “Today’s the day… _what_?” he carefully inquired, eyeing the bassist cautiously as though he expected him to do something drastic like dance a jig of any given sort.

Paul’s face remained light and animated, “Today’s the day we get t’see Georgie, Ritchie!!”

Ringo’s jaw dropped, his eyes widening simultaneously. Bloody hell… he’d been waiting ages for this moment to find him! And now here it was. And finally too. He’d long since taken on the dark, un-broadcasted belief that the very next time he’d ever get to see the lead guitarist was… _when pigs fly…_ A week was a long time.

“Says who?” he asked, seeking out genuine confirmation.

“Says Eppy!” Paul relayed with zero hesitation, “Up and at ‘em, slowpoke! Our youngest awaits!!”

In a flash, Ringo had the covers of his bed back and was scrambling to remove himself from the confines of it. Covers astray, he scampered to his feet, overwhelmed with excitement.  “What are we waiting fer?” he asked, his level of excitement matching his mate’s, “Let’s go already!”

“In yer pajamas?” Paul wrinkled his nose at him.

Standing now, Ringo looked down at his disheveled, flannel attire. “Too casual?” he quipped.

“Much…” Paul laughed, “Blimey! How much cold medicine did you take last night, anyroad?”

“A lot… why?” Ringo asked, genuinely interested as to why his mate would ask him this.

“I think it’s gone and jumbled yer brain… or…” he stood back, crossing his arms over his chest with a smirk, “…rather what was left of it…” he quipped good-naturedly.

“Well, as I’ve said before, I serve t’keep yer on yer toes!” Ringo beamed back, a wide smile finding his face, “I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t!”

Paul shook his head with a small smile of his own. How grateful he was that the delightful drummer was here with him, helping him to cope. He had no idea what he’d do without him, crazy antics and all. He turned towards the bedroom door, “Here, I’ll let y’figure out yer outfit in peace…” he spoke softly, “See ya when yer done.”

“I won’t be long,” Ringo informed him as the door shut soundly behind him. The drummer continued to smile to himself as he proceeded to seek out a proper outfit, his suddenly sensible dream still very much with him.

When pigs fly indeed…


	43. The Long and Winding Road

“Aw look at him, the poor thing… He looks so sick still…”

“Is he alive?”

“He’s _sleeping_ , Ritch! What a _daft_ thing to ask!”

“Well, _excuse_ me, _Madame_ McCartney!”

“Boys, _please_! Save your bickering for some other time.”

“Yeah, _Paul_!”

“Sod off, _Starkey_!”

Epstein sighed, feeling more and more these days that he had somehow adapted the role of ‘father’ over his band in place of the ‘manager’ position he had afore signed up for. While a part of him didn’t mind, while a part of him felt honored to have claimed such a roll, he found today especially, that he hardly had the energy to partake in such responsibility… even with the help of Mal. ‘Uncle Mal’… Brian chuckled at the role he knew the roadie had taken on. Mal Evans and Neil Aspinall… and even George Martin back home had become something of uncle figures in the life of his boys. They were loved. And a lot of people were pulling for them. Perhaps, it would be everything enough to eventually turn the tables… influence the universe to allow for the right thing to take place. By the sound of it, they needed a miracle. _John_ needed a miracle…

Brian sighed as his mind drifted to John. He’d do anything to see him walk out of this hospital unharmed and unaltered. He’d been in a coma now for five whole days, possibly going on six now. But, he hadn’t given up hope and he wasn’t about to do so either.

For the past several days, his mind had been hampered with a startling array of dread, confusion, and concern. Lately, it stemmed from the growing complexity regarding the families of John and George. They needed to come out… yet money was scarce for all of them at once. Harrison’s parents surely couldn’t afford such a financial splurge. Recently, he’d been in contact with Neil Aspinall who’d remained at home to tie up loose ends on the Beatle’s behalf. Between the two of them, with the help of Mal, they were in the process of working something out. Neil was very heavily considering paying for all the expenses and flying out with them. Epstein was on the verge of authorizing it.

“Should I wake him?” Paul’s voice permeated the commanding chaos occupying Brian’s mind.

“The doctor said we could, didn’t he?” Ringo asserted, his voice flowing out with an obstructed, lack of clarity. Because he was sick, the hospital had seen it fit for him to wear a protective mask over his nose and mouth. Not only would it protect him from catching something else at the hand of his hampered immune system, but it would protect George and others from potentially contracting his cold.

“Yes, he did,” Mal stepped in, “But let me… before you end up causing more harm than good.” With a gentle hand, he scooted the drummer away as though he were no more than a pesky mosquito.

Ringo nodded and took a relenting step back. He was midway into another one when unable to contain himself, he promptly sneezed. Though the spray had been confined strictly to his mask, the drummer couldn’t help making a face. “I’ve a mask full of snot…” he grumbled, disgust and displeasure dripping from his statement.

Paul laughed, “Well, at least it’s yer own, son!”

“Now that y’say that, that changes everything…” Ring flatly and sardonically recited, glowering at him. If looks could kill, he was certain McCartney would’ve been reduced to a pile of ash.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to make due until we can find you a new mask,” Brian told him, slight amusement gracing his features in the face of Ringo’s frustrations.

“Lovely,” the drummer sulkily spat.

All eyes turned to Mal as he went to work at rousing Harrison from his deep slumber. “This feels so wrong…” he mumbled all the while, “It feels I’m robbing him of the sleep he needs!”

“He can sleep _after_ , can’t he?” Paul asked, more so whined, “I really want to talk to him!”

“Me too!” Ringo chimed in, sniffling profusely.

“Oh all right…” Mal settled his hand finally on George’s shoulder and frowning lightly at the amount of heat that still radiated from it, proceeded to shake him. There was some mumbling followed by muttering and eyes gradually opened.

“What now?” the lead guitarist hazily groaned, his eyesight clearly having yet to come into focus. He shifted his gaze around, noticing the increased amount of people surrounding him. Rarely, were there ever this many people in the room at any given time. As the silhouettes clarified, he found his eyes widening all the time. “Th-this is a dream… isn’t it?” he questioned aloud.

“That depends… do ye’dream about us often?” Paul managed to quip through a permanent smile.

“It’s a dream…” George continually insisted, momentarily remaining blind to any and every other possibility the world could offer, “Every time I dream of ye’ lot, one of ye’ is wearing something ridiculous.” He gestured to Ringo, the presence of the drummer’s face mask helping to stress his point, “What’s all this, then?”

“They made me wear it,” the drummer pathetically professed, “Told me it would stop me getting infected and stop me infecting you.”

George looked around, his eyes falling on Mal and then Brian. “Bloody cruel dream, this…” he mumbled disjointedly, “It’s as though you’re all truly here!”

“Because we are!” Ringo exclaimed, straining to get his point across, “Yer not dreaming, you know!”

“That’s exactly something ‘Dream Ringo’ would say!” Harrison accused the drummer, “You’d better pinch me t’be sure!”

“Pinch you? I’ll slap you silly!” Ringo laughed but moved in to do the guitarist’s biddings anyway.

“Ow, that sodding hurt!” the lead guitarist yelped as the drummer followed through. Fiery, throbbing, pulsating pain now emanated from a very angry, red welt on his upper arm. “Y’didn’t have t’pinch so bloody hard!”

“See?” Paul was laughing now, “Y’felt that didn’t ye’?”

“ _Felt_ it?” George scoffed, rubbing his arm and glaring at Ringo, “I’d consider meself lucky if I’m ever able t’feel anything _but_!”

“Consider yerself lucky I didn’t slap yer like I said I would,” the drummer grinned mischievously at him.

And George fell into a laugh, his initial anger melting from his slightly flushed face like ice from the sun-soaked side of a mountain. Tiny tears of complete happiness reminiscent of the unthawing of a winterized stream began to flood his eyes. _Finally_ it was spring after it had been winter for far too long. “…But that means yer really _here_!” he pieced together breathlessly, “Right…?” His questioning eyes were immediately drawn to Paul as the bassist nodded.

“We’re here, Georgie,” he verbally affirmed, his smile still holding strong.

 “M-Macca?!” the lead guitarist went on to croak, eyes simultaneously widening in liberal shock.

“Live and in person!” the bass player comically announced.

George’s eyes swung next to the drummer who stood beside him, “A-and Ringo?” he quickly added. There was some disbelief present but it was lessening all the time.

The drummer took an animated bow, “At yer service, m’love!” he beamed, his eyes glistening wetly with tears of his own. He took a step back and descended into a mock bow, succeeding in bringing a smile to George’s face.

“Mal!” Harrison scoped out the tallest in the room next.

“It’s been a week too long,” Paul filled him in.

“It’s good to see you, George,” Mal happily responded.

“And Br-Brian!”

“I see they’re treating you well, here,” Brian responded, smiling fondly, “I saw to it that they would.” He laughed lightly, the reaction seemingly having no origin, “Always the best for my boys. From here on out, I’ll see to it.”

“I feel it’s been years since I’ve seen you all!” George blurted out.

“The gangs all here!” Ringo glorified, smiling wide through his mask. Except Lennon. He glanced about the place, taking in all the technology that surrounded the Beatles’ youngest. A lot of it was familiar to him. A lot of it, he’d seen before during past hospital stays of his own, “So when are they letting you out of ‘ere?” he casually asked.

The lead guitarist shrugged, his tired eyes aimlessly roving the ceiling. Now that the brunt of his adrenaline had worn off, he was tired all over again. “I don’t know… I’m still pretty ill they tell me. Might be days… depending on…” he faltered, his addled brain falling him as it often did nowadays.

“Depending on your progress,” Brian helpfully filled in for him, having heard the same exact wording from the lad’s doctor.

“Right.” George nodded. Subject to increased pain at the act of movement, he winced uncontrollably, his head still resolutely throbbing. He’d received pain meds not that long ago… or maybe it was a while ago. He’d fallen asleep shortly after and it seemed like every time he’d settle for what was supposed to be a kip, he’d drift off for unfathomable amounts of time. For all he knew, it had been hours since his last dose.

Paul frowned forth his concern at his mate’s displayed flicker of pain. “You all right, love?” he worriedly asked.

“Head still hurts…” George sluggishly murmured, “They say it’s the fever…”

Paul looked perturbed by the young guitarist’s wording. “Is that normal?” he asked, glancing over to Mal and Brian as though they’d achieved medical degrees just by being privy to the conversation.

“I think it is,” Brian informed him, raiding his memory bank, “His doctor told me that he’d possibly have a fever-induced headache. It’s at 102, you know. That’s still quite elevated and can’t possibly be all that comfortable for our George.” He smiled affectionately at the lead guitarist as he spoke.

“You can say that again,” George agreed.

Approaching him slowly, Paul settled a hand on the side of his cheek, “He’s warm all right. But thankfully not as hot as John was right before his…” He trailed off, eyes wide as he realized he’d broken conduct. It was Brian’s wishes at the command of George’s doctor not to bring Lennon up. Not at such a fragile time in the lead guitarist’s recovery.

One by one, everyone froze.

Sensing the changed demeanor in the room, George piped up, asking the only thing that was remotely sense-worthy in the confines of his haggard mind. “How _is_ Johnny?”

Paul iced up, completely lost for words. “Uh…”

Ringo glared at him, willing him to find the right words to properly undo what he’d inadvertently started.

Paul remained uncharacteristically frozen.

“He’s ill,” Brian quickly stepped in, “Still very ill. But… from what I’ve heard, he’ll be all right… eventually…” He punctuated his statement with all the optimism in the world not just for the sole purpose of convincing George but for the purpose of maybe convincing the universe as well. John Lennon would be fine, damn it. He’d be damned if anyone were to tell him otherwise.

No one noticed as Paul, blatantly angry with himself slipped off stiffly to a remote corner of the room. No one heard him angrily muttering to himself all the while, in a constant stream of scoldings and beratings.

“Lennon’s tough…” Harrison stifled a large yawn, “He’ll kick this illness’s arse in no time at all.”

“He’d better!” Ringo absently commented, “Or I’ll kick his arse, as well,” He sternly eyed the lead guitarist, “And _yers_ if yer not out of here by the end of the week!”

“I can’t help that, y’know,” George skeptically stared back at him, his eyes half-lidded with growing exhaustion, “Had I any control over me body, I wouldn’t ‘ave allowed fer this to happen in the first place. I’m right certain Johnny wouldn’t have either.”

“We’d still be touring.” Ringo added. He looked to Brian who looked sad all over again over the revelation.

George yawned again. “I’m sorry, y’know…”

“What for?” Brian asked.

“For always falling ill and th’like… You all must be out of yer minds with caring fer me.”

“This is a refreshing break, really…” Ringo lightheartedly quipped, “Yer someone else’s problem now.”

“And so are you,” Harrison playfully tossed back, “Life _has_ been rather peaceful lately without yer gob in the works, y’know.”

“How wonderful for you,” Ringo arched an eyebrow at him.

“Bloody figures,” Brian inserted, “that the two who are ironically always ill in one way or another would eventually end up in a hospital… in intensive care… on my watch.”

“Maybe it’s saying something,” Starkey suggested.

George arched an eyebrow at his older mate, trying his best to limit his reaction to pure skepticism and nothing more, “And what might that be?” he tiredly asked, despite somehow already knowing what it was he was on about.

 “Y’blokes need t’be more like Paulie and me. No more of this brooding nonsense! Gets ye’ ill, it does.”

George stared flatly at him. “Well _, yer_ ill, Mr. Sunshine,” he bluntly pointed out, heavy but characteristic sarcasm weighing in on his voice, “How do y’reckon that one?”

“Well, I’m the only exception, love,” Ringo airily responded, gesturing to himself as though he were a prize of sorts.

George paused, looking briefly disgruntled by the brunt of what the drummer was attempting to suggest, “I can’t help who I am anymore than Lennon can, Ritch!” he defended himself, “We’re the darker half. That’s why we work, y’know… The four of us… If we were _all_ like you and Paul, well… I reckon it would get too much to handle at any given point… Too much sugar and spice and whatnot.” He yawned again, his eyes momentarily falling closed, a surefire product of thinking and talking so coherently.

Ringo stared hard at him, his mouth still concealed by his mask dropping slightly agape. “ _Blimey_!” he exclaimed somewhat dramatically, “Yer not the ‘quiet Beatle’ anymore, are ye’? That was quite the gobful out of yer jus’ now!”

“I’resenthat…” George whispered, somehow turning the three-worded statement into one giant word as he began to slur from the exhaustion rushing in to claim him.

In the background, Mal chuckled to himself as he fondly looked on. It was sounding much like old times. How they needed that.

Brian glanced at his watch right then, “I hate to be a bother,” he abruptly began, turning to face Ringo, “But we should leave soon. Our fifteen minutes is almost up.”

Ringo obediantly nodded, keeping any remorse well hidden. The good news was that George was awake and talking and had been doing so for two days. By the looks of it, it would only be a matter of time before his eventual discharge.

George perked up once more as a seemingly important observation crossed his mind. “‘Ey, where’s Macca gone off to?” he tiredly asked.

“Isn’t he…” Brian trailed off as he looked about the room. The door was ajar and the bass player was nowhere to be seen. Bloody fucking hell… He looked to Mal who quickly sprung into action. “I’ll locate him!” the roadie hurriedly affirmed, “I’ll notify hospital security and we’ll have him back in no time!”

Eppy looked as though he was about to faint. “Please hurry!”

* * *

Paul was angry. No he was fuming. Wasn’t he supposed to be the one always in control? Wasn’t that was his reputation consisted of? Nearly everything he stood for? How could he have carelessly allowed for himself to break conduct the way he had? Because of _him_ , the truth had almost come out… and George was almost made aware of just how bad off their rhythm guitarist truly was. He had forced Brian to construct a lie, a feat that clearly had to have put him out of his element and now… it was only a matter of time before Harrison officially knew the truth. When he did, it was quite possible, he’d be outraged. He’d been lied to and John was _not_ okay. He hadn’t been for quite some time. He possibly could even… _die_ from this.

Such a revelation had the bassist choking back tears. Really, he just wanted for the madness to be over. He wanted things to revert back to the way they were worlds before this god-awful tour had gone to hell. He desperately needed for it to be the four of them again. Ringo, John, him… George. It tore him up inside to know that such resulting beauty may never be… ever again. Paul paused just outside the door across the hall and peaked in. From what he understood, this was John’s room. If he could…

Before he’d even gained proper knowledge of what he was about to do, McCartney had the door open and slipped inside. The room was empty… save for a bed and some technological looking equipment and…the figure inside the bed. Paul’s heart skipped several beats at a time as he regarded his friend, tucked firmly beneath blankets, appearing dead to the world… or rather just dead. He was pale. Terribly pale from what he could see. And intense fever flushed his cheeks into an angry form of red that Paul was certain he’d never seen on any other human being let alone his best friend. It seemed he’d lost a bit of weight too. He looked to be at least ten pounds lighter… Poor thing…

“John…” he whimpered, choking forth the word. Slowly, hesitantly, he drew closer for a better look, all kinds of conflicting emotions battling within his very soul. Again, before he knew of what he was doing, he had a hand to his mate’s disheveled hair. Stroking the auburn mess with enhanced barely contained affection, he swallowed back repetitive waves of sadness. This wasn’t Lennon he was staring at but… surely some form of imposter. The real Lennon had never been so still in his life. The amount of heat that met Paul’s hand was unbearable. How could he still be so hot even while hooked up to all this machinery? Even while receiving the proper meds that he needed? How was it that his case was so different from George’s? Why was it so much to ask that both his mates made the recovery they deserved?

Moving his right hand to John’s resting comfortably atop of the stark white sheets that swaddled him, he enclosed it within his. His left hand moved up to his hair, taking over the stroking motions that his right hand had started.

“You’ll be all right, Johnny,” he cajoled, his words gentle and soothing. “You’ll beat this thing.” He watched his mate’s much too still face as he spoke. There was no reaction within it. Lips were tightly sealed, eyes were tightly closed. How unnatural this was. How unnatural the past two days had been.

For the entire existing span of time, Paul had woken up in the dark and gone to bed in the dark. There was no light in between. All that existed were dark days, nights, and unfeeling numbers. _Day 1,_ _since the initial onset of Lennon’s coma. Day 2, more of the same…_ _Day 3, 4, 5…_ Every maddening night, the distressed bassist would find himself succumbing to sleep, a sobbing mess. Every following, maddening day, nothing _ever_ changed. Lennon remained in a coma, oblivious to everyone’s wants and demands. And McCartney remained a wreck, beside his fucking self all the _fucking_ time. For all he knew, Lennon would be dead within the next hour. For all he knew, he was _dying_ right now. As he watched. As he stared at him so intently. His beautiful best mate. His songwriting partner. His _counterpart_. Whom he may never see awake again. Whose eyes may never be alit again with a sort of wild and unpredictable, mischievous animation that only Lennon was capable of.

The bass player felt the tears he’d been struggling to hold back let loose all at once and soon he was sobbing loudly and messily, an occurrence that had been much too familiar for him of late, “You’ll beat this, Johnny…” he repeated through commanding sobs, “Won’t you please _try_? Won’t you please try for _me_? For _us_?”

Those were the magic words that under normal circumstances were all it would take to convince Lennon to give in to any wish the bassist had. How he wished this time would prove to be no different. How he wished Lennon would just sit up in his bed, laugh loudly and deeply, and let on to Paul that he was having him on. And Paul would scold him angrily at first for attempting such a sick and twisted prank before succumbing to a laugh of his own because truly, he could never stay upset with John. Never could, maddening behavior and all.

“Please?” he pleaded, “It’s me, y’know… In case y’didn’t know…  Macca… I…” he swallowed hard, “I don’t know what I’d ever do without you… and ‘onestly I don’t wish t’find out. Please don’t let me find out! These past several days ‘ave been trying at best, love. Between you and Georgie, I’m always worried… It’s been nearly a week in fer ye’, y’know… Five whole days… possibly going on six… and I… I… I don’t think I could survive a day more without knowing that yer still inside that head of yers…” He studied his face still as he spoke, hoping for any sort of reaction. Nothing. How could he be so still…? How could he be so out of it?

Paul’s heart broke, merely exploding in his chest in a manner similar to a silent supernova. This wasn’t real. There was no way it was real… It was a nightmare. Another twisted nightmare.

“Johnny… please… do me a favor and hang on. Y’need to come out of this. We all love you, y’know and need you back… _I-I_ love you… and I mean it in the least queer way possible,” he laughed hollowly, “I’m no Brian, after all,” he cheekily added. He squeezed Lennon’s hand for emphasis.

And just when he was about to let go, leaving fate in fate’s hands, he felt something of a twitch.

Was his mind playing tricks on him? Paul’s gaze dropped down to his mate’s hand. Sure enough, it twitched again as though he were attempting to squeeze back. _This_ was the magic he’d been on about! _This_ was the magic he’d been hoping for! “Johnny!” he quavered, still outwardly startled by the display, “…Yer okay. I know that now…” Leaning in, he brought his lips up to his ‘brother’s’ forehead and kissed it gently, the action strictly platonic, “Yer okay,” he repeated, like something of a soothing mantra.

He gave Lennon’s hand a final squeeze before officially letting go and drifting away. His heart thudded still. But this time with something different. Something had just happened. But what was it? And what did it all mean? Would John come out of his coma? He couldn’t possibly know. All he knew was that he needed to tell someone and pronto.

Moving with increased haste, the bassist rushed for the door and threw it open bursting forth into the hall. Following a quick scan of his surrounding, he was suddenly aware of a woman, a nurse to be exact, conveniently strolling in his direction from several yards away; a slight sense of urgency quickening her step. Occupied by a chart in her hands, she had yet to take proper notice of him.

“ _Hey_!” Paul made the spontaneous move to flag her down, momentarily forgetting the brunt of his manners, “Are you John Lennon’s nurse?”

The woman stopped short, regarding him now with wary eyes. Judging by her appearance at closer proximity, Paul could now see that she was most likely a head nurse. Had his late mum been watching, there was a great chance she would have frowned upon the idea of him approaching one in such a way as their responsibilities were boundless…

Wariness evolved into full-out suspicion as the older woman continued to study him, accurately attempting to gauge his antics. “No…” she began slowly, hesitantly after a while, “I’m afraid I’m not his nurse, young man… but I could fetch her for you…”

“Yes, that would be wonder—”

Recognition lightened her matronly features right then, “Aren’t you…?”

“ _Yes_ , I am,” Paul impatiently filled in for her, “But on a more important note, you must get John’s nurse! _Or_ his doctor! He’s moved! I felt him!”

The nurse narrowed his eyes on him, disapproval imminent, “Were you in his room?” she sharply demanded, “Are you aware that he’s been denied visitors given his fragile condition?”

“Sod all that!” Paul obstinately snapped, “He bloody moved!”

The nurse nodded, “All right, all right,” she relented finally, still eyeing him skeptically, “I’ll fetch someone at once.” She lifted a finger, pointing it directly at him, “ _You_ stay out of his room,” she warned, “Your germs are the last thing he needs.”

“Well the room was much too easy to get into fer starters,” Paul flared, “Perhaps, the lot of you should bump up security. I very well could’ve been a crazed fan looking to get at him.”

“I’ll have you know that this is one of the most guarded floors of this hospital,” the nurse indignantly responded, “John Lennon and George Harrison are certainly _not_ the only stars we’ve ever had in our care.”

“Paul! There you are!”

Paul turned in his tracks to see Mal hurrying towards him at a mile a minute. It made perfect sense as well, given his leg span. “Hey, Mal…” a sheepish look briefly overtook him.

“Where’ve you been?” the roadie demanded, “I’ve been looking for you for several minutes now!”

“I went t’see John!” Paul lifted his gaze all the way up as Mal sidled up to him.

“You realize you’re not allowed in his room, don’t you?” Mal sternly told him, glaring back down at him.

“Well, yes but… I had to… I jus’ had t’see him…”

“And what have you gained from such insolence other than a blatantly angry nurse?” Mal looked beyond Paul at the nurse that was still present, looking just as displeased up close as she had from a distance. “I’m sorry,” he genuinely relayed forth to her, “Paul sometimes can’t right help himself. He’s a bit impulsive when he has his mind set on something.”

The nurse nodded. “I understand,” she sighed truthfully, officially letting her frustration drop, “They’re very close aren’t they?”

“Quite,” Mal informed her.

The nurse nodded again, smiling finally at Paul with a growing level of respect and understanding, “I’ll go fetch John’s doctor. He’ll want to see for himself what you’ve told me.” She grew serious in the aftermath of her words, “But please, take a moment to understand that coma patients can enter several different levels of unconsciousness while under. Several incidences have included them walking, moving, and even conversing while still considered comatose.”

The smile that Paul began to flash in response to the nurse’s initial compliance tapered off prematurely _well_ before it reached its full potential, “He could still be trapped, then?” he meekly asked, sounding a bit like a small child that had just been told that Christmas was canceled.

Solemnly, the nurse nodded, “I’ll let his doctor know, anyway… He’ll want to know in case it _does_ mean something.”

“Thank you…” Paul murmured, sounding less enthused. He’d been so sure that what he’d seen had been important. He’d been so sure that John was crawling out of his coma. How could this possibly prove untrue? Why was this all so bloody, fucking complicated??! “He _responded_ t’me!” Paul pitifully insisted, turning next to Mal who stared back at him in a mix of confusion and slight concern.

“What are we on about?” Mal curiously asked him as the older woman slipped away.

“John… he responded t’me… He tried to move…” the bassist hesitantly told him as though not only trying to convince the roadie but trying to re-convince himself as well that what he saw was real and not a product of his imagination, “I _saw_ him… I _felt_ him…”

Mal remained annoyingly skeptical. “How so?”

“He tried to squeeze me hand!”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes!” McCartney automatically insisted, “I felt he was telling me that he’s still in that head of his. That he’s _okay_. I could feel it! I could feel it’s what he was trying to tell me!” He wasn’t sure _how_ or _why_ he felt he knew this. He just felt he _knew_. Why was it that no one was in the habit of wanting to believe him? Had he somehow managed to lose his credibility?

Mal nodded thoughtfully after a while, looking as though he’d made the conscious decision to humor him. “Well, we’ll see what his doctor has to say, anyroad,” he calmly acknowledged. He quickly glanced at his watch before anymore could be said, “We should leave soon, really. Grab something to eat. And of course, Brian and Ringo should want to know that you’re all right, daft as you are for wandering off.”

“Great…” Paul mumbled. His fucking parade had been torched and rained upon in as little as a handful of minutes. As it turned out, he wasn’t as sure of anything as he’d initially thought… Comas were stupid.


	44. Fixing a Hole

The unearthly scream was everything enough to attract every ounce of Nurse Nancy’s attention from across the room. She’d been idly assessing Lennon’s vitals as had become the norm for her this hour of the day, and had just turned away to fetch a thermometer when the unanticipated shrill shout of alarm had begun plaguing her eardrums… When she’d looked back to visually gather information regarding the present state of her patient, she was startled out of her wits to find him sitting straight up in his cot; his eyes wide, wild, and unfocused. An additional sheen of sweat was plastered to his face, proceeding to soak his already damp hair all the way through.

“John!” she exclaimed; rushing towards him, any and all additional thoughts, slamming to an abrupt halt.

The guitarist turned towards her, his gaze which the nurse was beginning to realize reflected full-out terror, blatantly looking through her as though her presence was on a separate plane of existence altogether. Trapped in whatever hallucination he was seeing, it was obvious he lacked the ability to perceive happenings occurring in real time. It was the product of delirium at its fullest not to mention a product of the coma itself. Nancy had had plentiful experience with such an altered state of mind particularly in highly febrile patients. It wasn’t so different when these highly febrile patients were additionally comatose. A vast majority of the time, there was no getting through to them as they were often unaware of their physical and mental state of being… It was hardly uncommon for patients at such low levels of awareness to be forcefully thrust suddenly and unnaturally from the heaviest confines of the deepest states of unconsciousness by a mere nightmare powerful enough to do so. And it was hardly uncommon for them to fall right back into a deeper state of sleep directly afterwards… The witnessing of such a phenomenon was every bit as unnerving and unbelievable as it sounded. It had taken years for the nurse to get used to it.

“John!” she called again, eager to see if she could readily gather his attention in attempt to properly gauge his levels of awareness.

Lennon blinked a moment his eyes briefly focusing upon her. Then without warning, his eyes fell closed as was somewhat expected and he promptly fell back against the pillow, limp, spent, and utterly exhausted. He was out again by the time the nurse was beside him, though the aftermath felt different this time from what she’d been faced with at the initial onset of the coma. He had made eye-contact. John had _seen_ her. He’d been aware of her. She read as a potential sign, that comatose patients displaying spatial awareness were possibly on the verge of coming out from their comas. It was an even better sign if their eyes were able to focus on others in the room, truly seeing them and taking them in. She hoped the experience she’d just had, thoroughly meant something…

Nurse Nancy smiled weakly as she regarded John now lost in a deep sleep. He looked much more relaxed in his altered state. She would never entirely be sure of what it was that had provoked such a display from him, but it was a brief change in consciousness, nonetheless. And one that needed to be examined and assessed to gather any necessary information or changes that would need to be documented. She’d done this daily since her patient had fallen into his coma, subsequently adding the results to his charts, recording every ounce of his ongoing condition. For days, everything remained at a constant to the point that the nurse grew to expect the lack of change. But regardless of expected outcomes, it was absolutely mandatory.

Once again, she went to work, running test after test…

It was a full fifteen minutes later by the time she’d finished, noting that the end result this time seemed surprisingly promising… For one, the pupils were responsive to light, even if they hadn’t been responsive to her prying them open. This brought to mind…the seemingly incessant drivel having been relayed to her earlier by the head nurse as was uttered forth by the bassist of the Beatles. Now, it actually seemed legitimate… Not that it hadn’t before… But Lennon’s doctor had been quick to shut it down, having assessed his levels of consciousness directly after and finding nothing supporting such mysterious details… That had been two hours ago… Everything happening now could very well be the first step to improvement.

Coming out of a coma was always hard work for anyone unfortunate to experience it. It was a gradual transformation. It would often begin with patients simply opening their eyes… followed by spatial and/or facial recognition. These first few steps could take place minutes apart or days apart depending on the person and their situation. Next, if things carried on the way they should, they would then begin making purposeful, necessary movements all on their own like scratching an itch. Being able to follow commands when prompted like wiggling fingers and toes was often the next occurrence, and eventually they would be able to sit up with help. It was taxing on the body and mind, however… and staying awake longer than an hour or two would take time… The mind too was often affected, particularly the short-term memory aspect of it. Minor therapy to straighten out and improve the mental malfunction would sometimes be needed. Every patient was different though. And there was no telling what the nurse could expect out of John.

To serve as further much needed comfort, the musician’s fever seemed to have come down an additional degree, though it was still nowhere near where it needed to be. It was possible that John was too finally responding to the antibiotics he had been given. It was about time. A moment later and the results could’ve and probably _would’ve_ been fatal. Not that he was remotely out of the woods by any long shot…

“Keep up the good fight, John,” she quietly told the young musician, her voice barely rising above the steady beeping of his heart monitor, “You’re showing remarkable signs of improvement.” The nurse wondered what it was that had changed the process of things. It had only been after the visit from his band mate that things had begun to look up. Could that have been the boost Lennon had needed? It seemed highly likely. Despite the fact that John’s doctor had chosen to overlook such ‘nonsense’ as he’d readily put it, she’d heard similar stories all over the world regarding the immeasurable amount of power that the presence of a loved one could readily inflict on the afflicted. She found she wasn’t upset with the other Beatle for breaking protocol. If it was the leading cause to such a dramatic change in her assigned patient, she was truly grateful.

What was that other Beatles’ name anyway? Paul… wasn’t it? Paul… McCartney… Yes. The ‘cute one’ as America knew him, though honestly they were all cute and rather _charming_. She’d seem him before on the television. She’d seen them all. And from what the nurse understood of the Beatles, John and Paul were very close… and had been for years. There’d been studies performed on the positive effects of a friendship of that caliber. The benefits were potentially endless.

Nancy talked on, eager to yield some form of response from her patient. “I heard you received a visit from Paul McCartney today,” she rambled on as though Lennon was perfectly capable of taking in her words. She looked idly towards the door as she spoke. In that instance, she was rendered visually blind to any miraculous display that was to follow suit. She didn’t notice the resulting twitch of Lennon’s lips or the fluttering of his eyelids. Mostly because she hadn’t been expecting it. And then all at once it was blatantly obvious. Eyes wide, the nurse was beside him in a flash, “John!” she sharply called out his name.

The guitarist fitfully stirred. Tensing up and thrashing about.

“John!” the nurse repeated.

Lennon’s eyes flew open, unseeing as had been the case before. And he uttered the most pitiful cry the nurse had ever heard…

The nurse tried again to gain his attention. “John!”

The crying dissolved into moaning… Still thrashing about, John had all but heard the stern calling of his name. Frowning, the nurse laid a hand on his brow. It came back wet. His fever still dangerously high, the musician was sweating a frightening amount in all his agitated distress. She’d need to get his doctor’s permission to increase his fluids. Make sure he wouldn’t become dehydrated. More so, he should probably know that he was somewhat responsive now.

“Doctor!!!” she began calling aloud, her eyes unable to come away from John, “Come quick!!”

Unsure of whether or not she’d been heard, Nancy called out again, her panicked voice an octave or two above what was classified as yelling.

John was choking now, small amounts of vomit spewing from his mouth. It sprayed across his sheets in a pale splatter. Eyes half-lidded and fever-glazed, he coughed and writhed as Nancy anxious as ever, made great strides to get him onto his side to avoid aspiration into his lungs. She didn’t need for him to choke himself to death on his own vomit after all he’d been through and was still going through.

Gradually, the young man calmed down. She’d just begun the act of cleaning his face up, when the doctor burst into the room.

“He’s moving at his own will!” the man robustly professed, noticing nothing else at first but the very fact.

“Yes, but he’s still somewhat comatose and terribly delirious at that,” Nancy reminded the physician, hastily jolting him from the grips of the commanding revelation, “I called you in, however, because I believe we should increase his fluid intake.”

“Was he vomiting?”

“He’s finished for now but he’s still sweating out that fever… now more than ever.”

The doctor nodded and moved to act upon the suggestion. As he hurried to adjust the IV drip, John fell unnervingly quiet, coughing, choking, and sniveling abruptly abated. And within seconds, his eyes were closed, his breathing sporadic at first, gradually slowing down to something that resembled deep sleep. Despite the happenings, he didn’t seem any worse off than he already was. Nor any better.

“I thought he was improving…” Nancy quietly stated as she shakily looked on. “Was I wrong to think so?”

John’s doctor shook his head, refusing to let any pessimistic thoughts take hold. “His elevated fever is simply messing with him; jumbling his brain. And his antibiotics are most likely nauseating him. I’ll give him some anti-nausea medication then let him sleep and first thing tomorrow, I’ll order a brain scan so I can see where he stands. Honestly, it seems to me that he may be in the beginning stages of coming out from that coma of his.”

“You’re sure?”

“No… but we’ll have to wait and see. Things do seem like they’re looking up though.”

“I hope so,” Nancy sighed.

The doctor nodded his agreement. “…This is one of the more difficult cases in the world and it would be mighty foolish of me not to attempt to find positivity anywhere there is positivity to be found.”

* * *

Mal Evans hung up the phone and stared thoughtfully at it, his back purposely turned to the spectators that he already knew had long-since gathered behind him. From the moment he’d uttered the words ‘hello’ into the receiver; he’d been made aware of the approaching footsteps, the anticipation-filled intakes of air, and the all-out aura of wonderment that had all but furtively followed. From beginning to end, they’d waited like a flock of vultures carefully biding their time as hopes in regards to a potential meal flooded them. Like the promise of a potential meal, they waited for any bit of information that would readily satisfy their hunger for the knowledge they craved.

“ _Well_?” came the stuffy-nosed baritone that could only belong to Ringo.

Mal smiled softly; his beliefs and accompanying comparisons confirmed. He could almost feel the expectant nod emanating from Epstein. It was as though the very atmosphere rippled with the subtle movement. He turned around finally. As expected, Brian was mid-nod. Regarding only him initially, the roadie opened his mouth and shut it again, ongoing astonishment from whatever bit of information he’d managed to collect ruling him and his every action.

Brian heaved a sigh underlining his surfacing impatience, “I’d appreciate it greatly, Evans, if you didn’t continue to keep us waiting,” he pleadingly yet sternly urged.

“Yeah,” Paul added, “We know y’spoke with John’s doctor… Care t’share or would we be better off making our way to the hospital instead? At the rate yer carrying on, we could very well walk there first.”

“Cheeky,” Mal cast the overeager bass player with a chastising look bordering on disapproval.

“Well, what’s going on, then?” Ringo demanded, fervently taking up where McCartney had left off.

Mal looked to him next, then back to Paul, and lastly Brian before speaking again, “It turns out our Macca, cheeky as he is, may have been right about our Lennon all along.”

Paul smiled brightly, somehow already aware of the course the conversation was about to take.

Ringo looked to him in bemusement, “Right about what, Macca?” he asked, wondering all the while why he wasn’t in the know regarding whatever this was.

“Listen,” Paul informed him, a small smile crossing his face, “you’ll hear soon enough.”

Ringo pouted, “But why don’t I know already?”

“Because only Mal knows!” came McCartney’s exasperated response.

Mal rolled his eyes in growing exasperation of his own, “Does anybody want to hear about Lennon or am I wasting me time?”

“How so?” Brian asked again.

“ _How so_ what?” Mal looked to him, crossness still evident on his face.

“You said Paul was right about John…” Epstein slowly explained, “I was wondering how so?”

“His doctor believes that he’s beginning to show the necessary signs of coming out from his coma…”

Ringo gasped while Paul nodded, his calm demeanor indicating that he’d been expecting this news all along.

“And Paul _knew_?” Brian arched an eyebrow at the bassist, “When you went to see him, you saw something?”

“He’d tried to squeeze me hand,” Paul truthfully revealed. He looked to the ground still somewhat ashamed by his untimely adventure. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t have disappeared as he did. Unlike the likes of Lennon, he wasn’t one to always go about seeking out trouble. A brain under pressure was hard to keep in line.

“Why didn’t y’tell me, Paul?” Ringo asked.

Paul looked to him. “Suppose it meant nothing? According to a nurse, there was a chance of that, y’know. I didn’t want to compromise any outcomes by letting on to everyone at once… even you.”

The drummer processed the bit of information before nodding his understanding. He’d probably have done the same thing. “I guess that makes sense,” He tore his eyes away from Paul and laid them on Mal, “How is he, then?” he asked.

“Still terribly feverish, I’m afraid… and delirious as a result while demonstrating fits of awareness…” Evans further elucidated, “But his doctor remains hopeful to say the least. He’ll have a brain scan tomorrow and we’ll learn the news of that as soon as we’re able.”

“Not so daft now, am I?” Paul went on to demand of Mal.

Mal regarded him, all the composure he was capable of displaying, intact, “I never said that you were, Paul.”

“Well, y’never let on that I wasn’t either,” Paul countered, a small, barely perceptible smirk indicating his lack of seriousness on the matter.

Mal removed his glasses and rubbed at his tired eyes. Boy, he’d be glad when things were back to normal, assuming that they’d ever get there. He smiled finally, “You’re not daft, Macca…”

“You do have a remarkable connection with John, however…” Eppy fondly disclosed to Paul, “Even for as long as I’ve been privy to such a relationship, the extent of it still baffles me beyond all levels of belief.”

“That’s the Beatles for ye’,” Ringo affirmed, “Connected as ever,” He fixed McCartney with a mock glare, “ _Some_ of us more than _others_ , that is,” he added, his statement suggesting that he was still not pleased with being left in the dark in relation to their mate.

“Come off it, Ring,” Paul chided with a genuine laugh.

The drummer sneezed, the uncontrollable action robbing him completely of any contradictions he’d been about to enforce.

Chuckling briefly, Paul took the lack of response as a chance for some embellishment on the brunt of what Ringo had been trying to get at, “Lennon and I may have something special but it flows between all four of us jus’ the same.”

“Four halves of a whole,” Ringo nodded, sniffling profusely. He coughed and cleared his throat.

“I think y’rather mean ‘ _quarters’_ ,” Paul smoothly corrected him.

Ringo fixed him with an annoyed glare, “That’s what I _said_!”

“You said ‘ _halves’_ ,” Paul further enlightened him, flashing an amused expression, “Doesn’t make much sense, really.”

Ringo shot him a brief look of incredulity. “I didn’t!”

“You did,” both Mal and Brian confirmed in exact unison, twin smiles reflecting Paul’s amusement maddeningly in place.

Ringo was all but impressed with their unexpected input. “Fine. _Quarters_ ,” he grumpily elaborated, “Is everyone happy now?”

“Getting there,” Paul smirked, “It’s a start, really.”

Grumbling incomprehensibly, Ringo made a face at the bassist, openly displaying his abundance of displeasure.

Paul’s smirk transformed into a grin.

“Regardless of whether halves or quarters, it’s what flows between you all that has made you boys special from the start,” Brian revealed nostalgically. He looked as though he was about to cry but quickly thought better of it. “This is a grand moment!” he decided, “A change for the better.”

Ringo nodded excited all over again, “First we got to see Havva and now things with Johnny are beginning t’look up! We should do something!”

“Whadaye’ recommend?” Paul turned to him in confusion.

“Well, it’s been years since any of us has have had a decent meal…” the drummer pitched forth, “I say we make a night of it.”

Brian all but jumped on board, “Are you _sure_ you wish to expose yourself to the public with all going on with Lennon and Harrison?” he skeptically asked.

Ringo stared back at him, a grin spreading across his face, “Who said anything about the public? We’ll ‘ave it right here!”

Paul smiled, catching on, “We’ll order room service!” he energetically elaborated, “Make a night of that!”

“What do y’say?” Ringo questioned, eyeing both Brian and Mal with all the caution in the world.

“I say, let’s have at it!” Mal hurried to make his opinion known.

“What a splendid idea, boys!” Brian finally crowed, fully coming to understand the recently vague idea he’d initially been presented with, “It may be just enough to take our minds off of everything.”

“That’s the purpose!” Ringo unnecessarily pointed out, “We’ve had a trying week. A tiring go at it. Let’s take a break from thinking so hard. Let’s take a break from overanalyzing every possible outcome that could come of this band. We’ve forgotten what it’s like to live… and if I know John and even George, they’d never want that.”

“Ringo’s right,” Paul knowingly affirmed.

Epstein nodded once, the action yielding official permission. “Room service it is, then. I’ll ring through to the kitchen straight away.”

Ringo patted his belly, “Good. I’m right starved!”

Paul stared at him in full incredulity, “Can ye’ even taste right now?”

The drummer shrugged, seemingly unconcerned by the possibility, “I reckon I can taste _enough_. I like to think of meself as a bit of a super-taster, y’know.”

Paul narrowed his eyes in utter disbelief, “What are you even on about, Ritch?” he demanded.

“The size of me nose is good fer some things,” Ringo took the time to explain, “Taste is one of them.”

While Mal chuckled, Paul proceeded to roll his eyes to the ceiling and back, “Whatever y’say, Ringo. As Lennon’s boldly stated before, _that’s_ not the size that matters.”

“Har- _har_.” Ringo fake laughed. But his fake laughter quickly melded into real laughter as he realized just how right McCartney actually was. It _was_ every bit something Lennon would say. That and something more. Because with John Lennon, there was _always_ something more to be said. How he _missed_ the rhythm guitarist something awful. How he _longed_ to see him. Never, since the life-changing day that the drummer had been asked to join the Beatles, had he _ever_ been forced to go so long without even hearing his voice. The bandleader’s desired presence, on a regular basis, was so upfront and powerful, so overwhelming, so unbelievably _Lennon_ ; a sudden and prolonged lack of exposure was grounds for symptoms of withdrawal. He hoped he could see him soon. He hoped with all his heart that the four of them could make it out of this in one piece. Because deep down, he believed they deserved that much.


	45. The Inner Light

The flames reached the ceiling… and just when they were about to descend upon him with all the condemnation in the known universe, just as he was about to scream bloody murder in regards to a fate unknown, it faded. The flames faded… the sure promise of death fading right along with it. One moment, he’d been sure he was about to die… and the next moment, the threat was gone, the vague assumption that it was all a possible hallucination replacing it. He was merely laying somewhere… possibly in a bed… or maybe a grave…

Hallucinations had been a thing of late for the rhythm guitarist. And often, they were frightening. People or things would appear, he’d begin interacting with them, and moments later, they would disappear as though they had never before existed. It was as though he’d managed to trap himself within a nightmare. The tormenting sort of nightmare, he could never seem to wake up from. Perpetual. Permanent. Boundless. Only recently had he caught glimpses into what he perceived to be actuality. This realm of ‘realism’… that he may or may not have conjured up within his faulty mind, subsisted of certain consistencies that was reminiscent of a world he once knew… or rather a world he was _supposed_ to know… And it was there every time he made the conscious decision to open his eyes… more so, while his eyes and mind worked properly at the fleeting hand of lucidity. Rare were these moments… And ever evasive, they were hard to hold onto. Judging by the nature of it all, it was no accident that official logic couldn’t quite be pinned.

The vivid flames of an imaginary fire continually illuminating the insides of his eyelids, the rhythm guitarist took a moment to hesitantly attempt the recently scarce act of prying his eyes open. Top lids seemingly fastened to corresponding bottom lids by invisible anchors made the normally trouble-free feat seem all the more impossible. Perhaps, his eyes had been anchored shut… Or rather glued… Was one of his mates messing with him? The musician figured such a concept was bound to unfold, considering that it was only a matter of time before Ringo found out he and Harrison had secretly been the ones to switch out his shampoo with cooking oil that one time… Lennon remembered it like it had taken place a mere matter of hours ago. His own brain had been the one to outline such a scheme… and George, having always been so quick to jump on any given opportunity to impress him in those days, had eagerly joined him… Such a character was George…

The musician abruptly froze mid-thought. George… was _he_ a true figment of reality? Of course he was… And Ringo too… They were his mates… along with Paul… And perhaps, true reality was the only way he would ever get to them ever again… But where was it? How would he get to it? And would he know when he got there? He’d never truly know… would he? It didn’t entirely seem likely…

…Incessant nonsense trailed off and he lay still in loud silence… the next wave of nonsense never far behind…

…What was he on about again? …Right… eyes… Glued by… something… Maybe nothing…

…He should probably attempt to get up… see if he could find this ‘reality’ he so desperately craved… He’d better make haste and get started if he were ever to get there…

…Dismissing the right to see altogether, the muddle-headed Lennon made another attempt at movement. Wiggling his fingers to ensure they in fact still worked, he made a strained effort to lift his entire hand. Limb shaking sporadically with such a draining endeavor, he got it maybe an inch or so in the air before it collapsed back down, his muscles quitting on him. And how they ached… his muscles… Renewed panic set in almost instantly. He couldn’t move… Why couldn’t he move? And why did he hurt so much? All over… he ached… And he was so hot… as though that threatening fire was somehow still nearby… Maybe he was… and he was burning…

“John… ohn… you …kay?” someone called distantly, the words presenting disjointedly to the rhythm guitarist’s throbbing ears. It rather sounded like Julia. But that was ridiculous. Julia was… dead… or… wasn’t she? Maybe that had been a hallucination, as well… “It’s oka…, love… try an… open your eyes fo… me…”

Lennon swallowed convulsively with a shake of the head. Resulting pain enveloped his face. “N—can’t…” he uttered, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes, you can.”

“Heavy…”

“You’re… comple… control of …ou’re actions…”

“But… ‘m’not…”

“Open your eyes, John.”

A comforting warmth spread across his face all at once and with a startling ease, his eyes opened simultaneously… uncertainly. To his left with all the clarity in the world, there was the tail end of a wispy something fading through the nearest wall…

It was _her_ … Julia… He could _smell_ her… It was without a doubt, the same familiar scent that would permeate the air whenever she was near… It was the same familiar scent that would intensify tenfold as her protective arms wrapped around him in the sort of motherly embrace that only she had the ability to bestow upon him. What he’d felt just a moment ago upon his face had been no different. It was the one sure revelation he’d come across thus far. It was a replica at its finest. And he knew because there wasn’t an existing being in the world able to recreate or even rival such perfection.

Forgetting everything and giving in to contentment, John proceeded to close his eyes… His work, whatever it had been, was done.

“John!” there was suddenly a different kind of prodding now. It seemed more urgent than before as though danger were near. Perhaps there was a fire after all. How bloody untimely. How bloody inconvenient.

Annoyed, the rhythm guitarist forcefully pried his eyes open one more time instantly regretting the action the moment it was rendered complete. His world, now a presenting blurred, twisted, chaotic mess of color danced tauntingly around him like he’d suddenly become one with a kaleidoscope. Though it was a complete contrast to the sinister fire he’d nearly been victim to, there wasn’t much comfort to be found here either… And the unfamiliarity of it all actually frightened him. Wishing to shut the madness out at once, he squeezed his eyes shut all over again very much dreading the idea of having to face such insanity all over again. The last of his budding coherence slipped away. Where was he? _Who_ was he even? He felt broken… vacant… detached… sick… lost.

“Wake up, John…” someone gently cajoled again, directly into his ear.

And in an instant, Lennon tensed, his entire body launching itself into reflexive defensive mode. There was some bird whispering into his ear and… it didn’t sound like Cyn… or Mimi… or even Julia… Where was he…? Had he gotten himself into trouble again? Surely, he’d gotten drunk and slipped off with some bird… or something… Eppy was going to have his head…

“John? Can… hear me?”

Eyes opening once again to the same blurred mess, the guitarist blinked rapidly trying to get himself to focus. After a concentrated while, it worked somewhat to his advantage, some amount of definition working its way into his less than perfect vision. “Where… ‘m’ I…?” he feebly found the energy to croak to the figure dressed in white standing patiently beside his bed. For all he knew, she could’ve been a ghost. Or an angel. Maybe she _was_. Maybe he was dead. But what about the fire? Was he in hell, then? Were there even angels in hell? It frightened him all the more to learn that he still had no idea where he was… or where it was he was supposed to be… No recollections whatsoever…

“You’re in… hospit… ohn…” His ears apparently couldn’t remember how to function either… This new revelation was equally as distressing as everything else going wrong at the moment. “Are… all right?”

Growing increasingly disoriented, he found he couldn’t answer. Maybe it was because he was so unbearably, stiflingly hot… Burning from the inside out… Were his insides on fire? Was he about to catch into flames? He tensed involuntarily at the disturbing idea. It was possible he was just hot… Maybe he lived on the sun…

“…John…” her voice sounded altered… faded… stretched…

Lennon tensed even more, feeling suddenly like a caged, wild animal in a domesticated environment… Nothing looked familiar, nothing _sounded_ familiar… When had he entered such a hell… and when had the natural act of hearing become so bloody difficult? Why did everything sound so horribly… distorted? It was like a permanent dream. A _nightmare_. Puzzled, the rhythm guitarist did the only thing instinct was capable of bringing to mind. He gave his head a shake to clear it. And all at once, he was back inside the kaleidoscope at the dreaded mercy of blurred colors and figures…

Something was wrong here. More like nothing was right. He was horribly dizzy… and still so hot… and he couldn’t stop aching. Every fiber of his very being ached… Try as he might, he still couldn’t move a thing… save for his throbbing head. His entire body weakened and weighed down, felt like nothing more than dead weight… It didn’t even _feel_ like his… The rhythm guitarist wondered vaguely if his limbs were still attached. Perhaps, he was in pieces somewhere… blown apart by some… Resulting nausea stemming from his blurred and unstable world incessantly clawed at his insides desperately looking for a way out. Before he knew what was happening, he was gagging violently, his stomach contracting in a painful, breath-stealing manner.

Within seconds, just as his mouth had been about to expel the nastiest of contents all over himself, something was hastily shoved beneath his nose while a tender, skilled hand guided his body onto his side. “Here, honey, use this…” the distant voice instructed.

Stomach still contracting, the rhythm guitarist managed to aim as though by miracle, small traces of bile dropping into the container. He heaved three times before the aggressive convulsions calmed down, leaving nothing but pain and exhaustion in its brutal wake. Grimacing wearily in the aftermath, he rolled back over and shut his eyes again for a brief amount of time. He could feel the sweat pouring down his face. It was too hot still… Over 200 degrees it felt like. Maybe this was what it felt like to be boiled alive… Like Hansel… or Gretel… or however went the tale…

“Are you all right, John? Are you in pain?”

Lennon reopened his burning eyes managing to restore as before some amount of clarity within them. Christ, he was exhausted… Fucking zonked… but still so hot… so… dizzy… He blinked repeatedly trying desperately to ward off the ever-present, stubborn spinning sensation. It didn’t work.

“Dizzy…” he tiredly blurted out. Some amount of hearing had been restored to his relief, but still he felt absolutely god-awful. Never could he ever remember feeling so poorly. How was it possible for one to feel so horribly sick? Perhaps, he’d caught some sort of superbug or something… A super-flu… Were there super-flus? Was there even such a thing? Lennon had a feeling that if there were, it would consist of everything he felt. Bloody fucking hell… and he had a show to put on… sometime… soon, as well. Eppy was _really_ going to kill him…

“Any pain?”

“Head…” Lennon hadn’t meant to whimper but he found he couldn’t quite help himself, “…everywhere…” he pitifully added, his voice barely climbing into audible range.

His nurse regarded him with what looked like sympathy, “I’ll fetch you some pain medication. It should hopefully help to take the edge off. Are you still nauseous?”

John nodded after taking a moment to fully process the question being thrown at him. “Where am I?” he asked again, confusion clouding his glassy eyes.

“Hospital,” the bird repeated, looking at him now with ample concern.

John shook his head in complete denial of the presenting situation, “Nooo…” he lethargically mumbled, the word slurring a ridiculous amount.  Suddenly frantic for reasons unknown, he lifted his head off his pillow as though feeding on pure adrenaline and hastily made a show of struggling to sit up.

Wide-eyed, the nurse rushed to restrain him. “John, you need to lie back down!” she forcefully ordered, “You’re very sick!”

“Nooo…” Lennon weakly protested all over again; his own eyes wide yet sufficiently lacking focus, “….In… a prison… Can’t be here… Eppy’ll ‘ave m’head… I… something… need t’b’done… show… no… ill… hurts…” he descended rapidly and abruptly into a slurred fit of delirious murmurs and whimpers. Physically spent, his head, glistening heavily with sweat, fell back to his pillow in complete, irreversible exhaustion. Unable to keep his eyes open any longer, they slipped shut.

“That’s it, John…” his companion soothingly whispered, “You’re all right…”

“…Noo…” Lennon slurred, eyes still closed.

“You’re fine, honey. Just go to sleep…”

“Ta… Julia…”

And as before the nightmare that had brutally thrust him into consciousness, deep, even breaths reminiscent of sleep, moved in to claim him. And he let it, completely unaware that he’d just officially awoken from a seven day coma…

The nurse waited a while, making sure the poor tormented soul was truly asleep before daring to let herself out from his room. As she quietly shut the door behind her, she was greeted nearly unexpectedly by Lennon’s doctor who looked as though he’d been about to check in on him, himself. “Dr. Marshall!” Nancy exclaimed in surprise.

“How is he?” the middle-aged man quietly asked in return.

“He’s broken free of his coma,” the nurse replied with wide eyes, “Judging by everything he’s just exhibited, there isn’t a doubt in my mind.”

“What exactly has he demonstrated?”

“We’ve partaken in somewhat of a lucid conversation in which he fully understood most everything I was saying to him… I’d render him coherent if it weren’t for his fever-induced delirium. I just got him to fall back to sleep…” She lapsed into a fit of melancholy with a dismayed shake of the head “His fever dreams are really tormenting him!”

“His temperature?”

“Spiked to 104 early this morning but down now to 103.5 on the nose and hopefully dropping still,” was Nancy’s automatic response, “He’s _so_ delirious, it’s unsettling! Have you received his scan results yet?”

The doctor nodded. “The swelling is in fact, going down… finally…” He looked somewhat relieved yet troubled, “I can only hope there isn’t any lasting damage… I’ll want to perform some tests when he’s more coherent. I’ll check on him later in the evening and see how he’s faring. And then I’ll give him a proper examination so we can attempt to see where he stands… mentally…”

* * *

 

“Good evening, George! How’re we feeling?”

The lead guitarist opened his eyes as Doris, a weathered face he’d grown accustomed to over the course of his stay, slipped into his room.

“‘M’okay…” he croaked out in somewhat of a slurred response. Ample confusion on display, he watched intently as the nurse, skillfully balancing a bowl on a tray, approached him with surprising grace. Honestly, she looked as though she’d had some previous experience as a seasoned waitress. Suddenly, he was curious to whether or not she did. Regardless, he was thoroughly impressed by her entire exhibition. “Were you a waitress?” he blurted out, unable to keep from sounding captivated.

“That obvious, huh?” Doris questioned, looking to him with a bit of amusement.

George nodded, hoping he wasn’t overstepping any boundaries.

The older woman set the tray of something resembling soup down on his bedside table before pulling it closer to him for ease of access. “It put bread on the table throughout nursing school,” she casually revealed as she deftly arranged his meal.

“What’s this, then?” the lead guitarist went on to ask, looking now at the steaming bowl with a vague mixture of interest and hesitance.

“It’s your dinner,” Doris automatically explained with a small smile, “Doctor’s orders since he took you off your feeding tube. I hope you’ll feel like tasting your first meal in quite some time,” she added expectantly.

George yawned and sat up, a feat that had gotten slightly easier with practice. He was still far from his usual level of strength, but no longer did he need much assistance when it came to sitting up in his bed. He could sit up _when_ he wanted and _how_ he wanted. He was grateful too. He missed independence with a passion. “Depends,” he shrugged, glancing warily at the bowl, “What kind is it?”

“It’s just broth. Chicken broth to be exact.”

Weirdly enough, the lead guitarist’s stomach growled with increased interest. Having heard the plaintive cry loud and clear, Doris laughed.

George blushed, a deep rose coloring his cheeks, strongly emphasizing the feverish flush that still gripped him. “I suppose that answers yer question, then…” he sheepishly responded, making a comical move to reprimand his insides.

Nurse Doris laughed again, “I suppose it does!” She hurriedly pulled out a shiny, slender object from her front pocket, “First, let me take your temperature for an accurate reading.”

George nodded and fell silent, allowing the older woman to do her job. Day in and day out, this had become the norm. He was quickly becoming accustomed to the way things worked around there.

Once she was certain she had the correct reading, Doris removed the thermometer and studied it for answers. “101.9!” she happily reported after a while, “That’s great news, George! It’s a rapid drop from the 102.4 it was at last night!” She looked hopeful. “I think it’ll break soon.”

“What happens when it breaks?” George asked.

“If your temperature remains at normal for an extended period, you’ll get to leave,” Doris smiled optimistically, “So let’s think get well thoughts, okay?”

“Yea’okay,” George drawled lazily. He eyed his bowl of soup still, practically salivating at the mere idea of eating for the first time in what felt to him like months. It was taunting him, this bowl… “When can I eat?” he couldn’t help blurting out.

“Let me finish setting you up first,” Doris adjusted the swing-out table so that it hovered directly over the guitarist’s form and helped him to raise the upper half of his bed for back support. “How’s that?” she asked.

George nodded, pleased. “Thanks!”

Doris smiled at him, taking a step back. “Your soup is very hot, so take your time!” she firmly told him in a manner reminiscent of a mother scolding her child. In a way, she easily could’ve been the boy’s mother, he was so young, “Don’t feel obligated to finish it either. You don’t need to make yourself sick.”

By the time she’d finished warning him; Harrison was already four spoonfuls in, the heat hardly seeming to pose as a threat. “This isn’t half bad for hospital grub,” he somehow managed to reveal through a mouthful.

The nurse arched an eyebrow in growing amusement, “You _must_ be hungry!” she commented.

George hadn’t realized it either. Food had been one of those things he easily could’ve gone without thinking about, more or less the prolonged product of illness. But leave it to sight and smell to awaken things all over again. It had looked like food, so naturally he had become curious. It had smelled enticing, so naturally he’d wanted to eat it. The nurse must’ve known he’d been feeling somewhat well enough to eat. For that he was grateful. Maybe he would be out of there in no time. The very idea gave him hope.


	46. Here Comes the Sun

The room seemed to hold its breath as its inhabitants awaited the final reading. From what everyone understood, this was a moment to behold. A potential game-changing moment. A possible step into the right direction.

With an air of conclusiveness, the nurse skillfully held the thin silver tube at a suitable angle directly beneath the fluorescent lighting and studied it analytically for the answers she would subsequently need to take the time to chart.

No one moved.

“100.3…” she reported once she’d managed to make proper sense of the numerical arrangement before her. Lifting vivid eyes, dazzlingly alit with elation, Nurse Doris turned to face the musician corresponding to the information she was about to reveal. An equally jubilant smile spreading simultaneously across her face, she enthusiastically held up the thermometer so that his eyes could seek out officially confirmation.

As it turned out, she was right. Harrison remained stony-faced.

“Congratulations, George!” Doris brightly followed up, trying to squeeze a smile from him, “You’ve reached another milestone! If your temperature continues to drop the way it has been, you’ll be out of here by the end of the week!”

Wild, happy cheers filled the room courtesy of everyone else, their very actions portraying what logically should’ve come from the lead guitarist on the receiving end of such news. George actually looked worried by the revelation rather than delighted, “Well, what if it’s all only temporary?” he asked, his voice presenting with croaky hesitance, “Me immune system is always against me, y’know…”

“Well, I like to think that your immune system finally has it right,” Doris quickly responded, the speed of her response demonstrating complete dismissiveness of Harrison’s worries, “I have a feeling things will be different from here on out. I’ve been around a while… I _know_ these things.” Her eyes grew serious as she spoke as though she truly had some connection to the unknown, “Just think about how far you’ve come! If your immune system can even begin to fight its way past _this_ challenge, then any future common cold should _hardly_ pose a problem ever again!”

“Well _that’s_ a way to look at it,” Paul piped up, from his chair situated directly next to Harrison’s bed, his location closer in proximity to his face, “George is _always_ sick, y’know. He was getting over a cold when he caught this.”

“His cold was what most likely made him especially susceptible in the first place,” George’s nurse took a moment to explain to them, “The way it was understood, his immune system was already under strain making it open to attack.”

“How does that explain John, then?” George asked, “He wasn’t sick before he got sick, like I was…” He frowned, confused by his own twist of words.

“Well, the way _his_ case was understood,” Doris successively affirmed, beginning her new topic of enlightenment, “John’s body was already under strain, most likely as a direct result from stress. His charts from New York, state that he hadn’t been sleeping properly. Prolonged lack of sleep conbined with stress wears on the body making it susceptible to even the rarest of illnesses.”

“John gets sick on a monthly basis as often as George does,” Paul supplied, wholly mesmerized by the thorough explanation, “Just as I figured, lack of sleep and stress have everything to do with it. But try telling that t’ _him_.”

Doris laughed at the bassist’s closing statement, instantaneously recognizing something exceptionally and exclusively extraordinary within him, “You make sure these boys take proper care of themselves when they’re finally out of here, okay, Paul?”

“Gladly!” Paul grinned.

“We _all_ will,” Eppy supplied.

A previous portion of the nurse’s afore mentioned words rattled continuously around Harrison’s wearied brain like a wayward bee trapped in a jar. _‘…Even the rarest of illnesses…’_ the woman had taken the time to accentuate. Turning his head subsequently so that his eyes landed on his nurse, he finally asked the question that had logically come to mind the moment those very words had left her mouth. “Is that what John and I’ve gone and caught?” he decisively questioned, “A rare illness?”

His nurse solemnly nodded, “But you’re making a miraculous recovery!”

“And yer fever’s going to break tonight! I just know it!” an animated Ringo loudly cheered from his chair situated a few feet away from George’s bed and McCartney’s position.

George turned to him, showering him with a sullen glare, “Well, not if y’keep shouting about it, Rings! I’ve a headache, y’know!”

“You’ll be thanking me later when it actually happens,” Ringo indifferently responded, dropping his voice several octaves at a time. “In the meantime, you should listen to yer nurse, y’know,” he drawled forth in addition, “As I told y’before, that irreversibly pessimistic mindset of yers isn’t going to gain ye’ a thing in the game of life.”

George shrugged, his own reaction proving just as dismissive as Doris’ had earlier been as he allowed for his dependable go-to mentality to wrap around him. Whatever happened, happened, he liked to think. There was no changing things as they were. There was no changing things as they would be. There was no changing any of the things that were rightfully destined to happen. Nothing could change fate but fate itself. And fate was a fickle, fickle thing. Those who went about thinking they had what it took to tempt such a thing were eventually straightened out in the crudest of ways. For reasons of the like, George had never been a tempter of fate. He was happiest taking a backseat and letting life unfold the way life was supposed to unfold. It cut down on unnecessary anticipation. It cut down on resulting expectation.

“If all goes according to plan, I imagine the remainder of your temperature should break over night,” the nurse confirmed officially on Ringo’s behalf.

“And then?” Brian asked, leaning forward in his own seat, eager to find out what may lie in store. Perhaps, if he had some partial idea pertaining to the general probability of George’s potential release date, he could go ahead and make the resultant necessary and proper arrangements he’d had sitting on the backburner.

“And then we’ll monitor it for an extended period of time…” Doris respectfully informed the polished and poised, younger man, “a full twenty-four hours most likely. He’ll undergo some additional testing, as well. If his temperature remains at normal for the entire course of time then we may very well feel obligated to send him home.”

Brian fell into contemplation at the nurse’s disclosure. ‘Say George’s fever broke overnight,’ his mind went on to piece together, ‘Then according to his nurse, the hospital would hold him an additional day and night… And if all went according to plan, he’d be released the very next morning…’ Cor! And there was still so much that needed to be done beforehand! He’d best act as soon as possible. He’d be making telephone calls for the rest of the evening it seemed like…

“Sounds promising,” Mal optimistically spoke, looking from Doris to George.

Ringo rose from his seat and wordlessly made his way over to bedridden Beatle. Standing directly in front of him; he stared down intently at his forehead, proceeding to settle a hand against it in deep concentration. “Break,” he commanded, presumably speaking directly to the portion of George’s body.

From his angle, George couldn’t properly tell who or what it was the bizarre drummer was talking to. “Y’ _want_ me t’ _break_ after all that I’ve been through?” he exclaimed, tilting his head to look up at him with surfacing bemusement.

Ringo stared back at him, a look of momentarily disbelief gracing his features, “I want yer _fever_ t’break, George!” he affirmed in a manner that suggested that the lead guitarist should’ve been able to assume that much, “Yer _fever_!” He lifted his hand from his younger mate’s forehead and pointed a finger at it, his current nature proving somewhat comical as was often usual whenever drawing attention to himself, “Break, George’s _fever_!” he emphatically emphasized.

Doris and Mal chuckled, while Paul smiled in obvious confusion. What a bloke Ringo was. Reliable comic-relief when they all needed it.

Harrison remained fully serious despite the prominent atmosphere of bliss and ease surrounding him. “We’ll see,” he flippantly responded, maddingly ever the realist. He’d get excited when the moment completely called for it. Right then, he didn’t entirely have the energy to waste. It was _much_ too hard to come by.

“We _will_ , won’t we?” Ringo responded, a hint of a challenge in his voice.

Smiling in silent amusement at the show in front of her, Doris set down her most recent medical instrument of use. These Beatles sure were _something_ … she’d long since concluded. With an air of finality, she removed her gloves. As told by everything she’d seen, done, and witnessed; everything looked truly remarkable. And though George seemed a bit melancholy for the timebeing, she had no doubt he’d improve his mood with progress. “I’ll leave you all to your privacy,” she stated, officially wrapping up her assessment of George’s vitals with those very words.

“No… no stay!” Ringo made a polite attempt at coaxing her, “Don’t leave on our accounts!”

Doris smiled genuinely at him. These boys were so charming. While they’d seemed that way on television, she hadn’t in a million years expected for them to maintain such personalities in person… Especially when faced with so much… It was truly endearing. It was a shame she wouldn’t be able to spend more time in their company. “If only I didn’t have other patients to tend to,” she revealed truthfully, much reluctance in her voice.

“Yes, yes,” Brian added, smiling at her with admiration, “Don’t guilt the woman, Ritch. There are many others like George who require her attention just as well.” A hint of scolding entered his tone as he turned to look at him.

Ringo’s face reddened, “Oh! I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Epstein,” Doris laughed, clearly unruffled by the whole display, “None of your boys could ever be a bother!” She opened the door and slipped into the hall, “See you all soon!” were her pleasant parting words before she officially took off in pursuit of the other important responsibilities she had to take on.

Brian nodded in the direction of the soundly closed door the nurse had just exited, freely exhibiting approval of her caretaking techniques and additional friendliness. What lovely company she was. George most certainly was in good hands… and any doubts he’d ever had were grounds for banishment.

“ _Was_ I guilting her?” a bemused Ringo asked aloud, turning to Paul for confirmation.

Paul dismissively waved away the very idea. “Eppy’s jus’being Eppy…” he shrugged, hoping to convince the drummer not to worry unnecessarily, “Don’t dwell on it, love.”

Brian turned to him, having caught wind of the conversation, “Yes, Ritch, I apologize.” His gaze flickered to a clock on a nearby wall, “I suppose I’m a bit riddled with anxiety.”

Seemingly influenced, Ringo nodded, briefly allowing for the explanation to sink in. “Why?” he asked after a short while.

“Manager duties,” the man quickly responded, “Nothing to worry yourselves about.”

Paul stared at their manager a moment more, before deciding a full change of subject was in order. Leaning forward in his seat, he turned toward Harrison, his eyes analytically probing his face as though it were a treasure map. “…So what’s it _really_ like?” he asked, using his curiosity in regards to their youngest’s potential endeavors as the topic change.

George’s face, initially alit with surprise at the suddenness of the question, settled back into growing fatigue as he regarded his longtime older mate, “What’s _what_ like?” he indolently asked.

“Hospital life,” McCartney elaborated.

“Oh.” Staring down at the stark white hospital sheets encasing him, the Beatle’s youngest made a concentrated effort to dig into his recently faulty memory bank, “Sort of a drag, really,” he resignedly recalled, “I had me first meal in days only yesterday, y’know…”

“That’s wonderful news!” Mal firstly announced.

“Was it as good as y’remember?” Ringo asked, “I’ve always found meself t’be a bit disappointed with the first meal.”

George’s eyes widened at his own memory, “I didn’t realize how much I _missed_ eating!” he told them with an uneven grin.

“He’s getting better, all right,” Mal pointed out with a slight laugh, “Right starting to sound like his old self!”

The others, even George laughed.

“What else goes on around here?” Paul continued his interrogation, a surplus amount of enthusiasm unnecessarily underlining the question.

Harrison shrugged, finding he was quickly running out of things to say about his life of late. Hospital life just really wasn’t all that interesting to him. “…Doris is really nice, I s’ppose. She’s made things significantly easier for me here.”

“Oh?” Ringo commented finally, a suggestively arched eyebrow disappearing into his thick, brown bangs, “And do y’fancy her, then?”

George didn’t even _want_ to know how the drummer had managed to come up with an assumption so utterly appalling. “She’s old enough to be me mum, y’know,” he snapped irritably.

The drummer glibly shrugged in response, “That hasn’t stopped some people, y’know.”

George could only stare at him, mouth agape in pronounced disgust, “Ye’never cease to amaze me with the things yer consistently out yer gob with…” he tiredly muttered, his voice taking on a dismissive element equivalent to his mood.

“That’s Ringo for ye’…” Paul disinterestedly inserted.

“‘S’not so unusual, y’know,” Ringo casually persisted, grinning forth his amusement with himself, “Imagine that, our ickle George has been through the mill and yet he’s _still_ so naive…” His tone taking on a teasing aspect, he offered the lead guitarist an affectionate pat on the head, “Isn’t that right, Macca?” he added, turning to gaze at the bassist for sought out support.

Brows furrowed in extreme incredulity, Paul found the need to wave him off, “Yer on your own, son,” he responded without delay, “Whatever bollocks yer out yer gob with these days, kindly leave me out of it.”

Harrison managed a weak laugh at that.

A mock pout formed to Ringo’s face right then, “Spoil sport!” he quickly labeled the bassist.

“Loon!” Paul unfalteringly shot back.

Harrison calmly took a moment to take in the childish atmosphere that had descended upon the room like a large and colorful quilt. “You’ve been spending too much time with each other, haven’t ye’?” he knowingly observed, silent amusement driving the question out from his mind and transforming it into spoken words.

“How can y’tell?” both corresponding Beatles questioned, turning to face the lead guitarist in perfect and complete unison.

“Just a feeling, really,” the guitarist smirked, satisfaction embedded in his facial expression, “Rather an observation…”

Still acting in unison, the two Beatles continued to stare at him both blatantly unsure of what it was their youngest was getting at.

Harrison said nothing more, the entire display he’d just perceived courtesy of his older mates having spoken all that needed saying.

Realizing that he wasn’t going to elaborate, the subject as a direct result was dropped, Paul and Ringo coming to the conclusion that there was no use in seeking answers where answers couldn’t be found. It was like trying to seek fresh water from the likes of a dried up well. They knew from experience that they’d have a better chance of finding a live octopus riding a polar bear through the Sahara Desert in the dead of the night. When their George was keen on keeping his gob shut, even pliers of the strongest sort wouldn’t have the necessary might to intervene. While such a personality trait had its benefits, the Beatles could think of a handful of times where they’d simply wanted to throttle their youngest. Unfortunately, _now_ wasn’t the time.

“How much of it do you remember, Geo?” Mal asked, impatiently steering the conversation gone astray back on track at his own hand.

Turning briefly to face their road manager, George found himself caught up in the act of shrugging; his go-to response in all the indistinctness that was still bound to him. “Bits and pieces really…” he truthfully disclosed, shifting his gaze to the roadie, “I can’t remember much…”

“Yer lucky to be alive, y’know,” McCartney took the following moment of silence to inform him, “Do you even remember how y’got here?”

Slowly, Harrison shook his head, “No, I don’t, Paul…” he quietly admitted, not immediately letting on to the fact that such a thing actually bothered him. How odd it was to know that there were existing bouts of time in which lots had happened in regards to oneself yet… try as he might…he couldn’t figure out how to access the necessary bit of information he would need to begin to piece his current life together… It was especially maddening that it had directly happened to _him_ , yet he knew even less than a mere spectator would. He would have to sit through story time just to access that locked away part of his mind, “What happened?” he dared to ask next.

“It’s quite the tale,” Paul softly revealed, the memory clouding his eyes with a distant glaze, “I’ll tell ye’ about it sometime. You truly are a lucky one, however. Luckier than _most_ …” Luckier than _John_ … He didn’t add that last part. He didn’t want to frighten George or cause him any unnecessary worry he needn’t have on his path to recovery. It was determinable that the doctors didn’t entirely understand diseases of his caliber… Consequently, they were uncertain as to what could readily cause a relapse with it and what wouldn’t… Or if relapses were even a threat with this particular illness. By keeping a stress-free environment for Harrison, Lennon, and all critically ill alike, they were playing it safe as a precaution.

“Why can’t I know now?”

“I don’t believe you’re strong enough to hear all of it,” Paul confirmed matter-of-factly, a stern glint underlining his hazel eyes.

George glared petulantly at the older bassist, his mind working out all kinds of reasons as to why he’d been denied awareness rights in regards to his own life. Apparently age meant wisdom to the insinuating git. “Y’don’t give me much credit, y’know!” he weakly protested, “Me fever’s almost gone!”

McCartney firmly stood his ground. “I’ll let onto ye’ when I see the moment fit,” he stubbornly avowed, “Y’may as well come off it until then.”

“But…” George looked to Brian who nodded, blatantly appearing to side with Paul. What else was new? The lead guitarist huffed forth his growing irritation, before trying the only remaining argument he could think of, “…But I’m sick…”

“…And much too fragile to learn the truth just yet,” Eppy abruptly inserted into the discussion on behalf of Paul’s obstinate adamancy.

George yawned. He was fading fast. Even anger was hard to hold onto while in such an incapacitated state. Perhaps, they were right. Perhaps, he really didn’t have what it took to process whatever it was they were withholding from him. He couldn’t even form a proper argument. “Yea’okay…” he relented finally, his already thick Scouse thickening with his growing exhaustion.

“It’s settled then,” Paul declared, smiling at him finally, “All in good time, love.”

The Beatles’ youngest nodded, “But as soon as y’think I’m ready, y’better not hesitate to tell me,” he warned.

“I won’t,” Paul promised, “It’ll make quite the bedtime story one night.” He looked on with sympathy as the guitarist yawned yet again, “ _Speaking_ of bedtime,” he cleverly added, “I reckon it’s time fer yers.”

Harrison nodded lethargically; his eyes half-lidded. He felt completely spent, as though he’d just seen himself through some sort of vigorous and exhausting, endless activity. “Sounds good,” he agreed in acceptation, unable to suppress his eagerness at the guaranteed bliss sleep would surely bring about for him.

Epstein energetically rose from his chair first, simultaneously glancing to his watch. “We’ll return first thing tomorrow to see how you are,” he made a point of informing the bedridden lad.

“All right…” the guitarist feebly responded, shifting his gaze temporarily to him. He managed a fleeting smile in the manager’s direction before his eyes, giving in to their exhaustion all at once; fell closed bringing the visit to a conclusive end.

His companions knew it would only be a matter of seconds before sleep officially claimed him. One by one, working to gather themselves, they made their way towards the door. This time, they didn’t feel as bad about leaving as they did in the past. This time, they were certain that before long George would be right back with them where he rightfully belonged. They could hardly wait.

* * *

 

“I’ll require much privacy for the remainder of this evening,” Brian sternly, upon entering the Beatles’ suite, took the time to enforce upon the others, “And for a good portion of the time that I’m unavailable, the telephone will be engaged… If anyone should need to make use of it, I’ll let you know when you’ll be able to do so.”

“Roger that!” Ringo stated with a goofy grin.

Paul elbowed him, the action borne of full incredulity, “Lay off the cold meds would you, Ritch?” he hissed at him, “There _is_ such a thing as an overdose!”

“What cold meds?” Ringo innocently albeit seriously asked, “I’ve barely taken any today, y’know!”

“I beg to differ!” Paul countered, “I saw you struggling with the bottle jus’ now. _And_ I saw you this morning! And fer the record, more than two spoonfuls for someone yer size is considered an overdose.”

“Me size doesn’t limit me to a child’s dose, Paulie!” Ringo argued, “I—”

“ _Are_ we _understood_?” Brian impatiently took a crucial moment to interrupt. He had much more demanding things to do than to stand around all day.

“We’re _not_ children, Brian,” Paul affirmed, rolling his eyes, “We’re capable of handling ourselves just fine.”

Epstein nodded, “I know, Paul.” His eyes shifted to Ringo and lingered on him, “Just make sure y’keep him away from any more medication.”

“But I’ve barely taken any today!” Ringo protested, looking to Brian with wide defensive eyes, “Why does everyone seem t’think that I need looking after? I’m—”

“Oh, George!” Paul interjected, launching himself instantly into an over-exaggerated, somewhat false, verbal recollection of earlier at the hospital, “George, do y’fancy yer nurse?!” His eyes landed on the drummer post-act, “What was all that, then?”

“It wasn’t like that!” Ringo argued, eyes still wide as an ongoing security measure, “Besides, I was only trying to make interesting conversation!”

“By asking our bedridden lead guitarist if he fancied a nurse old enough to be his mum?” Paul incredulously questioned.

Ringo shrugged, “I’m not the cute Beatle fer nothing, y’know,” he nonchalantly informed the bassist.

“Yer _not_ —” Paul started to argue but immediately thought better of it, “Whatever y’say, Ring,” he relented finally, offering the drummer an amused grin. The drummer _did_ have a consistent habit of making conversation interesting… But some of the routes he would sometimes take especially when sickness or medication was clouding his judgment were a bit unorthodox… even for him… “It wasn’t cute, son,” the bassist stated instead.

But Ringo was no longer tuned in. “So what is it yer doing this fine evening?” the drummer took a moment to ask Eppy, a large grin spreading across his face.

Paul who had already managed to forget their manager’s presence, jumped to attention at this. The drummer was beyond drugged with the way he was acting. “Ringo, y’shouldn’t—”

“You’ll find out when I see the situation fit enough,” Eppy somewhat irritably relayed to him. He was stressed to the max and the others were able to see it almost immediately.

“Right…” the drummer piped up, one last time, “Ta ra, then…” He looked to Paul, “How ‘bout a game of cards perhaps…?”

McCartney sighed forth his disillusionment with the idea, “ _Again_ , Ritch?”

“I suppose you ‘ave other ways of passing the time?” Ringo challenged, arching an eyebrow at him.

The bassist took a moment to think, the mentally strenuous action failing him altogether, “No… I suppose not…” he reluctantly revealed.

Ringo grinned, the genuine reaction faltering slightly as a yawn crept in. He blinked several times fending off a bout of sleepiness that seemed to have rolled in with it. The attempt falling short, he tried on the most energetic voice he was readily capable of, “Cards it is, then!” he crowed, ‘S’about time we had a rematch, anyroad.”

Paul was already regarding him skeptically, fully aware of the drop in his mate’s energy levels, “If you’ll last, that is.”

The drummer furrowed his eyebrows. “What do’ye mean?”

“It’s only a matter of time before sleep takes over. Cold medicine will have its way, y’know.”

Ringo yawned again, sniffling heavily in the aftermath. “It won’t.”

Paul smirked at him. “It _will_.”

Brian regarded them from a slight distance, momentarily captivated by the usual banter that only his boys could produce. Then suddenly realizing his risk of getting permanently sucked in, he straightened up his stance, cleared his throat and started his journey for the nearest telephone.

Behind him, he was fully aware as McCartney sighed yet again before turning to follow Ringo from the room, the heavy expulsion of air proving just as jaded as the previous one. And discreetly contemplating the otherwise unnoticed action; the manager found he knew just what it was drifting through the bassist’s mind right then and there. The bassist, as was often habitual for the band, mainly him and John- the bigger of all the personalities; was falling victim to a patch of restlessness. His subdued demeanor said everything. He simply couldn’t wait for things to change. Staring at the same walls day in and out with limited time outdoors had to be weighing on his mind. The manager found that after all they’d been through the past several days, he was right there with him. Brian was sure of one thing, however. They’d all get their wishes soon enough.

 As though for their own safety, the two Beatles quickly dispersed off to do whatever it was that commanded their attention. With a sigh of relief, Eppy made his way over to the sitting room table and sat down on one of the loveseats. Settling in and reveling in the newly fallen quietude, he reached for the telephone, the one thing that had been incessantly plaguing his mind for days now, resurfacing at once. It was destined to be one of those long evenings…

Dialing the long distance number he knew so well, the Beatles’ manager patiently sat still, with the phone receiver cradled to his ear. Several rings proceeded to rattle his ear drums, the resonating sound equally as displeasing as everything he’d have to do from there on out. It wasn’t as though he dreaded it… Not really. He dreaded the idea of everything failing to fall into place on such short notice. Why he’d waited so long to arrange things was beyond him. Perhaps, Lennon’s untimely, worrisome coma had distracted him. Though the rhythm guitarist had been out from it for some time now, it had taken a while for the initial shock to wear off. It had taken some time to resume any of the activities considered characteristic of him.

There was the sudden distinct sound of someone picking up followed by a familiar and welcoming voice, “Hello?”

“Neil, hello, how are you?”

“Brian?” Aspinall went on to question with only a bit of uncertainty audible.

“Yes, yes, and how are you?”

“I’m well!” Neil responded without delay, “How’re things on your end? How are Lennon and Harrison?”

“They’re both doing better than when we last talked. Lennon’s out of his coma and Harrison is on the mend. His fever may even break tonight, the nasty thing.”

There was a release of air signifying relief on Neil’s end, “I’m sure their families will be happy to hear the update! How soon should I consider flying them out?”

“Possibly tomorrow night. They’ll arrive the following morning and if all goes according to the foreseen plan, George’s family may be able to take him home with them.”

“And John?”

“We’ll have to see how he fares the next couple of days. That stubborn fever of his doesn’t seem capable of dropping below 102.”

“Cyn will want to see him. Mimi too though she’ll most likely fancy staying behind to watch Julian.”

Brian frowned, slightly discouraged by the fact that he’d somehow forgotten to fit Julian Lennon into the equation, “Surely she could find someone to watch him for the time being, don’t you think?” he asked with a bit of hope. He knew for a fact that Lennon would love to see his aunt.

There was a bit of hesitation as Neil proceeded to think through all possibilities, “There aren’t many people she’d trust with the task,” he revealed after a while, “Surely, y’know how she is.”

Brian nodded knowingly to himself. He’d dealt with the domineering woman enough times to have come to the same conclusion on his own. By the sound of things, she might not be able to make it. “If only Cyn’s mother didn’t happen to live all the way in Canada…”

“Cyn will want to see John, regardless,” Neil affirmed, taking the mention of John’s wife as a means to get down to business. He too was under the impression that it would be long next few days filled to the brim with planning and telephone calls.

“And they may very well be able to…” Epstein told him, “They just won’t be able to take him back home until he shows signs of official recovery…”

More hesitation on Neil’s end. “We’ll just have to figure out what to do about that when the time comes. The girls have a surprise, y’know.”

“What girls?” Brian demanded.

“The significant others,” Neil responded, unsure of how else to put it. Only one was a wife, the others were girlfriends. There was no real collective way of grouping them all together.

“Well, what is it?” Epstein impatiently prodded, somewhat disgruntled by the seemingly untimely news. They simply couldn’t afford any unnecessary setbacks or delays.

“Jane Asher and Maureen Cox have expressed interest in flying in with Cyn and Pattie to see the boys!”

Eppy’s face soften resultantly, “Why, that’s wonderful news, Neil! The boys will be ecstatic! I’m sure they’ve missed them terribly! It’s been nothing but continued stress for Paul and Ringo. They’ll be happy for the diversion. I’m right sure of it!”

“Great!” Aspinall’s content voice rang clear through the receiver. I’ll make arrangements for it. If y’could ring the others to set up a plan in the meantime and tell them the good news you’ve told me…”

“I’ll get right on that,” Brian smiled, “I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Ta ra, Eppy!” Neil declared, bringing the conversation to its conclusion on his end.

“Cheerio,” Eppy fondly responded. With a surge of excitement, he hung up the phone. Things could very well come together without a problem, yet. While he regretted the road manager having to stay behind in London on this particular overseas tour, he was beyond grateful that he had his help. That he had someone back home making ends meet and serving as the proper go-between he desperately needed.

With something of a smile gracing his face, Brian picked up the phone receiver once more and without hesitation in the slightest, proceeded to call the Harrisons. They’d be happy to hear the good news he now held for them.


End file.
